The End Of The Road

November 12, 1986

11:25 AM

Jake Kingsley, lead singer and rhythm guitarist for the rock band Intemperance, sat in the plush seat of the Lear jet, looking out the left side window. He could see the farmland of California's Great Central Valley some forty-two thousand feet below, could see the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the distance. On the table before him was an ashtray with a smoldering cigarette in it and a fresh glass of Chardonnay that Julie, the Lear's cabin servant, had just placed before him. It was his second glass of wine of the day, his fourth drink. He had started the flight from Seattle with two pale bloody Marys. He had a very mild buzz going. These days it took a little more than three drinks to get his motor running.

"This is the way to travel, ain't it, Nerdly?" Jake asked Bill Archer � affectionately known as "Nerdly" by the rest of the band. Bill was the group's pianist and, as of the Balance Of Power tour they'd just finished up, their unofficial concert sound technician.

Bill, like Jake, was dressed casually for the flight, wearing only a pair of loose-fitting sweat pants and a button down, collared shirt. His hair was cut militarily short and he sported large, horn-rimmed glasses over his eyes. Currently he was sipping from a glass of milk and running his hand up and down the lovely upper thigh of Julie beneath her skirt. "Oh yes," he said dreamily as Julie giggled. "Private luxury aviation is far superior to even first class commercial air travel." He ran his hand up a little higher, making it disappear completely from sight and making Julie squeal a little. "Far superior."

Jake smiled and turned back to his view out the window, taking another drag from his smoke, another sip from his wine. This really was the way to travel, especially after spending the last six months traveling by tour bus all over the country. The bus was comfortable, and with only seven people in it, not very crowded, but it was slow. The trips from each venue to the next averaged anywhere from four to twelve hours. Intemperance's last show of the tour had been in Seattle the previous night. All of the tour trucks, the roadie buses, and the main tour bus would be pulling out of the rainy city soon and starting the twenty hour drive back to Los Angeles. Jake and Bill had decided not to be a part of it. They were making good money from their latest album and had raked in quite a bit from tour profits and merchandising as well. Though their first royalty checks in July had been completely negated by the "recoupable expenses" clauses in their contract their October checks had been quite healthy indeed, especially considering that Balance Of Power, the album, had gone triple platinum and two of their singles had sold over four million copies as well. The last he'd checked, Jake had just under 1.6 million dollars sitting in his bank account although a good portion of that needed to be earmarked for taxes. Even so, he thought that splurging on a chartered air flight to get him home as quickly as possible would not bankrupt him. Bill had come to the same conclusion and had gone in half with him on the eighteen thousand dollar bill. Matt Tisdale, John Cooper, and Darren Appleman � the band's lead guitarist, drummer, and bass player, respectively � had all been offered the chance to get in on the flight as well. Matt declined because he had arranged his own private flight to Cabo San Lucas to get out of the winter conditions they'd spent the last two months in and try some sport fishing � which he'd become obsessed with � at what Sammy Hagar had told him was the fisherman's paradise. Coop � as John Cooper was known by friends and fans alike � had elected to go with Matt. Darren, who had been sullen and rather unpleasant for most of the tour, had declined everyone's offers, electing to just stay with the tour bus.

"I don't make enough fuckin' money to be blowin' it on six thousand dollar airplane rides," he'd told them. "I don't have the fuckin' endorsement contracts or songwriting royalties that some people have."

"Your choice," Jake had responded to him, giving him nothing more than a simple shrug. It was the way he'd developed to deal with most of Darren's tantrums. In truth, however, he worried about Darren. The bass player had developed a hefty heroin habit after their second tour and had been forcibly removed from the habit after Intemperance re-negotiated their original contract with National Records. Though Coop had gone through the same thing, Coop seemed to be happy to be off the heavy drug and back to the normal intoxicants like alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine. Darren, on the other hand, seemed like he was nothing but resentful.

"We're going to have to keep an eye on Darren," Jake told Bill as the Lear had roared into the sky from Seattle-Tacoma airport two hours ago. "I don't think he's meant to walk the straight and narrow."

"I agree," Bill agreed. He then turned to more important things. "Did you see the spherical quality of the mammaries on our stewardess? I'd love to palpate them in more than a clinical manner."

And now, as the plane banked gently to the right, making a miniscule course change that would put it on its final heading for Los Angeles, Nerdly seemed to be well on his way to that goal. Jake heard the wet smacking sound of lips in contact with each other. He turned and saw that Nerdly now had the stewardess straddling his lap while they sucked on each other's tongues. Bill's hands had pushed her dress all the way up over her ass and he was squeezing her cheeks through her panties.

Their kiss broke. Julie was flushed and a little breathless.

"Let's go visit the lavatory," Bill suggested, nibbling on her ear.

"I can't," she said. "I could get fired just for doing this. If one of the pilots catches me it's my ass."

"But I want to penetrate your vaginal orifice," Bill told her. "It's been almost twelve hours since I last copulated."

"How about after we land?" she asked. "We're laying over in LA for about six hours to pick up another client. I can come over to your place."

Bill thought this over a few moments, no doubt wondering if he should go for the easy score or go out to one of the clubs and hunt up something better once he got back home. Even though he was nerdly, he was also Nerdly of Intemperance � one of the hottest rock bands of the year � and, like every other member of Intemperance, when he wanted some sex, he got it.

He decided to go with the easy score since he knew he probably wouldn't feel like going out once he arrived home. "Okay," he told her. "It's a rendezvous. But how about a little oral copulation at least? I'm really feeling congested in my nether regions."

"Right here?" she whispered.

"Right here," he confirmed. "Jake won't mind, will you, Jake?"

"Not at all," Jake said truthfully. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd been in close proximity when one of his bandmates was getting his helmet buffed. Such was the life of a rock star.

Julie required a little more convincing but soon she was down on her knees between Bill's legs, her head bobbing up and down, wet slurping sounds emanating from Bill's lap. Jake looked out the window again and sipped his wine, wondering for perhaps the thousandth time just what it was about rock musicians that made perfectly ordinary women � which was what Julie seemed to be � act like the most depraved sluts when in their presence.

Julie had already offered herself to Jake. This had been while they were still taxiing to the runway back in Seattle. That was part of the persona. Women always went for Jake or for Matt first � dependent on their personality � but readily accepted Bill, Coop, or Darren (in that order generally) as secondary prospects. They just had to screw rock stars.

Jake had turned her down, politely but firmly. During the last six months they had hit every large and medium-large city in the United States and Canada, playing before well over a million people. He had fucked or had at least some sort of sexual contact with more than two hundred women during that time period, every last one of them a girl he'd known for less than an hour, every last one of them a girl he didn't dare kiss on the lips since the groupies, as they were called, gained admission to the backstage area where the band changed and partied by orally servicing members of the road crew and security force. The tour was over now. Jake was more than ready to deprogram himself from the road. He was burned out on meaningless sex. He wanted a real woman, someone he could have meaningful sex with.

Nerdly began to grunt in that high-pitched whine of his right about the time that Jake felt the plane heel forward and start its descent toward the Los Angeles region. The whines grew louder and more frequent before being climaxed (as it were) by a high-pitched teakettle noise.

"Exquisite," Bill sighed when he got his breath back. "Your oral skills are first rate."

"Thanks," Julie said shyly, as if unable to believe what she'd just done. Quite possibly she couldn't.

Jake finished his wine and handed Julie his glass when she went by on the way to the bathroom to freshen up. "How about another shot?" he asked her.

"Of course, Mr. Kingsley," she said, taking it from him. She smiled sheepishly. "I don't suppose you'd care for a little of... you know... what I gave Mr. Archer?"

"Some other time, perhaps," Jake told her, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Now, I'd really love another glass of that Chardonnay."

"Right away," she said, not the least bit perturbed by his refusal. She disappeared into the bathroom.

"Jake," Bill said once the door was closed behind her, "have I ever thanked you for talking me into this band thing?"

"A couple times," Jake said, taking a deep drag and blowing the smoke at the window.

"Well allow me to express my gratitude yet again," Bill said, sipping from his milk. "If I would have listened to my mother and kept up with my studies at UCH, I would right now, at this moment, be a computer systems engineer in some office building in Heritage and probably still a virgin. Now, I'm getting oral copulation from flight attendants on a Lear Jet. This is the life."

"Yeah," Jake said with a smile. "It is, isn't it?"

The Lear Jet circled in over the smoggy San Fernando Valley and touched down gently at the Van Nuys Airport. It taxied over to the general aviation terminal where a stretch limousine waited. Jake, Bill, and Julie stepped out onto the tarmac. The air temperature was sixty-six degrees, not exactly balmy but compared to the forty-two degrees it had been in Seattle and especially the eighteen degrees it had been the week before in Minneapolis, it was paradise. Jake turned his face to the sun and luxuriated in it. He had never thought of Los Angeles as home and probably never would, but at least it had pleasant weather most of the time.

The limousine driver was named Mark. An aspiring screenwriter, he was one of the regulars that drove for Buxfield Limousine Services � the small, family-owned company that all five of the band members used on an unlimited basis without charge. This was a deal that had been brokered by Pauline Kingsley � Jake's older sister and the band's manager � in which they allowed Tom Buxfield to film and photograph the band in his limousines and to use their images for advertisements in exchange for the service. So far it had been mutually agreeable to all parties. Jake and the rest of the band (as well as Pauline) got free limos and Tom's business had increased by eighteen percent since signing with them. There was also the added benefit that the drivers were not snitches for National Records executives as they had been when National had provided the limos (and, adding insult to injury, had actually charged the band's recoupable expenses account for each ride).

"Wassup, Mark?" Jake greeted as Mark held the rear door open for him. He held out his hand and shook with him.

"Jake, my man," Mark replied. He had long since been forbidden to call him 'Mr. Kingsley' when the boss wasn't around. "Welcome home. How was the tour?"

"Full of sex and drugs, like usual," Jake told him. "Such is rock and roll. Did you catch the show when we came through?"

"Damn right," Mark said. "That bunch of tickets you guys scored for us were premo seats. Right up in front."

The tickets he was referring to had been for one of the three shows in Los Angeles near the beginning of the tour. Against National Records' stern objections, Jake and Matt had reserved forty-six tickets in the first two rows � two for each driver employed by Buxfield Limousines and one for each member of the Buxfield family. A few of the drivers had sold their tickets � fetching more than $500 apiece for them � but most had attended the show.

"I'm glad you had a good time," Jake said. "Did Alex go with you?" Alex was Mark's 'life partner', as he called him.

"Sure did," Mark agreed. "He's got the total hots for Darren. He just loves the way he looks in those tight jeans."

Jake chuckled. Darren was perhaps the most homophobic member of the band and the one who still hadn't accepted that the entertainment industry was full of gays and bisexuals. "I'll be sure to tell him that next time I see him."

"Tell him if he wants to borrow Alex for a night it's okay with me. I don't mind... as long as I get to watch."

Jake wasn't sure if Mark was joking or not. He simply chuckled again and sat down in the plush seat of the custom limo. Bill stepped up to Mark next and they greeted each other as well.

"What are you doing after you drop Jake and I off?" Bill asked him.

"I was just gonna go grab some lunch," Mark replied. "I have a pick-up in Beverly Hills at five tonight. Until then, I'm pretty much free."

Bill reached in the pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out his wallet � a nylon, velcro closure job his mother had given him when he was fifteen. He pulled a one hundred dollar bill out of it. "Any chance I can get you to swing back by the airport, pick up my stewardess friend over there, and bring her over to my place for me?"

"Well sure," Mark said. "Anything for you guys, but why doesn't she just come with us now?"

"She has to help put the aircraft back into serviceable condition and replace all the booze that Jake drank."

"Hey now," said Jake, who was mixing up a rum and coke from the bar, "no cheap shots."

Mark took the C-note and made it disappear. Technically only the band members and Pauline were allowed the use of the limousine service but Mark, like most of the drivers, was usually more than happy to provide a little extra service during down times, especially when hundred dollar bills were added as an enticement. "I'll have her to you fresh and hot in less than an hour," Mark promised.

He closed them into the limo and then spent five minutes collecting their luggage from the cargo hold of the Lear Jet and putting it in the trunk. Once that was complete, he pulled out, heading for Bill's house first.

Nerdly lived in a luxury apartment building on Mulholland Drive near Mt. Olympus. It was a fifteen story structure that featured apartments ranging anywhere from 1500 square feet to 2500. Bill had one of the 2500 square foot ones. He hopped out and retrieved his own luggage, slinging one bag over his shoulder and hefting one in his hand. A doorman rushed out from the front of the building and quickly relieved him of them.

"Catch you later, Bill," Jake said, draining the last of his drink.

"Yep," Bill said. "It's good to be home."

Mark dropped the limo into gear and drove off, heading back down Mulholland Drive to the Hollywood Freeway. A short drive through the congested traffic brought them to Franklin Avenue where they cut across North Hollywood to Beachwood Drive. From there, they headed north, into the exclusive neighborhood of Hollyridge nestled in the Hollywood Hills. Jake's condo building was on the east side of Beachwood, just a hundred yards from the rugged terrain of the western edge of Griffith Park. Mark pulled into the entryway and came to a stop, jumping out to open Jake's door.

Jake got out and looked at the eleven-story building he was currently calling his place of residence (not his home). It was of classic sixties architecture, the colors pale earth tones, the windows large. It was one of the first residential buildings in Los Angeles to feature a rooftop swimming pool. Eduardo Guerra � one of the doormen � saw Jake get out and came rushing over to him.

"Welcome home, Jake," he greeted, holding out his hand for a shake.

"Thanks, Eddy," Jake said, shaking with him. Though he was universally disdained by the other residents of the building � most of whom were doctors, lawyers, business types, and moderately successful real estate moguls � he was very popular with most of the staff who worked in the building, the majority of whom were Mexican nationals who had a decent command of English. "I got my bags."

"Are you sure?" Eduardo asked. "It ain't no thing for me to haul them upstairs for you."

"I'm sure," he said, hefting the two bags onto his shoulders. "I've carried these two bags all over the damn continent. I guess I can carry them for another five minutes."

"Whatever you want, Jake," Eduardo said. He looked around, seeing that Mark was the closest person. He lowered his voice a little. "How you fixed for buds?" he asked. "I got a line on some premo greenbud from Humboldt County. The shit's so sticky you can take it out of the bag with one finger."

"Yeah?" Jake said, interested. "How much is it going for?"

"Forty an eighth," Eduardo told him. "Pricey, but worth it."

Jake considered for a moment. He knew Eduardo wasn't over-stating the price because Jake was rich. Those on the staff who offered illicit or semi-illicit services to him had long since learned not to screw with Jake Kingsley on the price if they wanted to keep doing business with him. Jake could afford to be screwed but he greatly disliked having it done to him. The pot and cocaine dealers of Hollyridge Condominiums were not the first to have had that lesson imparted to them. "Sounds good," he said, pulling out his wallet. He fished out a C-note of his own and handed it to the doorman. "Get me a quarter," he told him. "Take a couple nice buds out of it for yourself and keep the change."

"Thanks, Jake," Eduardo said, pleased. "I'll have it up to your condo in an hour."

"Sounds like a plan."

Jake said his goodbyes to Mark and then turned and walked into the lobby of the building. Several of the residents were milling around � mostly the wives who had attached themselves to the young urban professionals since, it being mid-afternoon on a weekday, the young urban professionals themselves were all at work. They made a point to shoot disapproving looks at him. He ignored them and simply pushed the elevator call button. When it arrived, he pushed the button for floor number eleven � all the way to the top.

The condo Jake lived in was 2800 square feet � the largest in the building. It featured a huge master suite and two smaller, though still considerable secondary bedrooms. It had an office, a large living room, an even larger entertainment room, a fully equipped kitchen, and a spacious balcony that ran the length of the top floor on his side of the building. Jake did not own the condo. He rented it from a real estate development agency his sister Pauline had established contact with shortly after taking over management of the band. The rent was four thousand dollars a month, plus utilities. It was money Jake paid gladly. He had developed a taste for luxury living over the past two years.

Jake dug his key ring out from the bottom of his bag and fished through the keys for a few moments until finding the one that opened his door. He went inside, the entryway leading to a spacious living room that was filled with the post-modern furniture he'd purchased shortly after moving in. The condo was empty but clean, dusted, and sweet smelling. This was the work of the maid service he'd hired to come in once a week during his absence. Now that he was home, they would come in three times a week � maybe more if he threw a party.

He tossed his bags down on the foot of his bed, making a vow that at some point he would actually unpack them and put the clothes in the laundry hamper. He opened the blinds on the large window to let some of the sunlight in and took a moment to stare out at the view that had become so familiar to him. He could see Griffith Park, the Hollywood Hills, and Mount Hollywood itself. It was a nice view but it was full of reminders that he was in Los Angeles, a city he loathed with every fiber of his being. He kicked off his shoes, socks and all of his clothes and left them near the foot of the bed, next to his bag. He walked into the master bathroom, which featured a large, glass-walled shower, a sunken Jacuzzi tub large enough to hold three people (and which had held three people on several occasions) and marble countertops. As with the rest of the house, everything in here was sparkling clean. He turned on the shower to as hot as he could stand and spent the next fifteen minutes just luxuriating under the spray. When he got out, he dried off, dropping the towel to the floor.

He pulled a white terrycloth robe from his closet and put it over his body. He then walked through the house to the largest room � the entertainment room. This part of the house was stocked with the majority of the expensive items Jake had purchased during the wild spending spree he'd engaged in upon becoming a new millionaire. There was a pinball machine, a regulation sized pool table, a shuffleboard table, a grand piano, a large screen television set complete with laser disc player, VCR, and stereo speakers. The audio system was first rate, containing a six hundred dollar turntable, a twelve-disc CD player, dual cassette players, a high-fidelity receiver, and the best speakers commercially available. Racks next to the audio components contained over six hundred records and one hundred compact discs. The walls were decorated not with artwork but with many of Jake's collection of musical instruments � several electric guitars, several acoustic guitars, a violin, a mandolin, a saxophone, a banjo (a recent acquisition that he was teaching himself to play), and, the centerpiece, a Les Paul guitar signed by Les Paul himself. This last, which was kept in a glass case, was a gift from Gibson Guitars, whom Jake held an endorsement contract with. Two instruments were conspicuously absent from the collection. They were the Les Paul Jake played on stage � which was currently in a truck being shipped back from Seattle � and the battered old Fender Grand Concert acoustic that he'd had since he was seventeen years old, the guitar he still composed much of his music on. Both of these instruments held a place of honor in his office.

Jake glanced around a little, smiling in satisfaction at his decorating scheme and all of his toys. He then walked over to the most important feature of the entertainment room: the bar. It was of genuine oak and ran the length of one wall. Stocked with every kind of liquor imaginable, it also had a large refrigerator complete with an automatic icemaker that could produce an almost unlimited supply of either cubes or crushed ice. He opened up the fridge and saw, with satisfaction, that it had been stocked according to the specific directions he'd given the maid service. There was a case or so of various sodas � coke, 7-up, and ginger ale mostly � and a case of his favorite beer, an import from Mexico called Corona. There was also a bowl full of fresh limes. He took out one of the limes and cut it into six slices, which he put in a small bowl. He then grabbed a bucket from a shelf behind the bar and dropped six of the bottles of Corona into it. He filled the remainder of the bucket with ice and then dropped a bottle opener in. He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from another shelf and carried his acquisitions across the room to the balcony door.

The hot tub that Jake had originally wanted to put out here was one that held twelve people and more than fifteen hundred gallons of water. Unfortunately the building's engineer had nixed the idea on the grounds that the structure of the balcony could not handle that much weight. So instead he'd been forced to go with the California Hot Spas model 27x, which only held nine hundred gallons of water and could only fit eight adults in comfort (and it had done that on one occasion just prior to leaving on the tour � an occasion that had ended with the arrival of the LAPD who had been called by his rather jealous downstairs neighbor). Jake flipped the cover up on it now revealing the one hundred degree water that was lightly scented with chlorine. He set his bucket and his smokes down on a special shelf designed just for that purpose and then grabbed an ashtray from one of the redwood lounge chairs. He took off his robe, unmindful that anyone out in the western edge of Griffith Park who might be equipped with a telephoto lens (as some of the more aggressive paparazzi were prone to doing) would have a clear shot of him. It wasn't as if they hadn't taken pictures of his penis before. He dropped the robe on the lounge chair and then climbed the steps into the Jacuzzi.

"Ahhh," he sighed as he felt the warmth permeating his tired body.

He turned on the jets and then opened a beer. He dropped a lime inside and had a large drink. He then lit a smoke and stared out at the scenery, unable to believe that there was no show to do tonight, that there was no show to do tomorrow, that the tour was really over and he was in what passed for home.

He made it through three beers and five cigarettes before a buzzer mounted above the balcony door began to sound. This was the doorbell alert. He stepped out of the tub, water cascading off of his skin and put his robe back on, tying it tightly around his midsection. He opened a fresh beer, dropped a lime in it, and then went back in the house, making his way to the front door. As expected his visitor was Eduardo, delivering the item he'd purchased.

"Check it out, homey," Eduardo said, unrolling a plastic baggie about a third filled with green buds.

"Out of sight," Jake said, taking it from him. He could tell just by looking that it was approximately a quarter ounce. He opened it and one sniff told him it was premium shit, as promised. "You're a good man, Eddie. A credit to your profession."

"I try," Eduardo said. "You been in the hot tub?"

Jake nodded. "Trying to soak away the aches and pains of travel. You wanna burn a little with me?"

"I'd love to, but I can't. I'm not off duty for another three hours. The boss don't like it if I'm stoned on the door."

"Understandable," Jake said with a nod. "Did you pull some out for yourself?"

"Sure did," he said. "And I thank you for that. You're my favorite resident of this tight-assed place, Jake. Hands fuckin' down."

"I'm just me," Jake said. "Hopefully I'll never be anything else."

"Amen to that. You need any blow? I gotta line on some premo Peruvian too. It's three bills a gram but it's worth it. Hardly any cut."

"I'll take a rain check on that one, Eddy," Jake said. "I'm a little burned on the blow after the tour. I always am. Check back with me in a week or so. I might score some if I decide to throw a party or something."

"Damn right," Eduardo said with a grin. He had seen the sort of people who showed up for Jake's parties. "Well, I'd better get back to work now."

"All right," Jake told him, giving him a handshake. "Thanks for the shit."

"Anything for you, Jake," Eduardo told him. "Anything for you."

When he left Jake locked the door behind him and went back to the entertainment room. He pulled a water bong from beneath the bar and carried it over to the couch where he promptly tested out the marijuana Eduardo had just sold him. It was every bit as good as it smelled.

For the next two hours Jake watched old movies on his television set, smoked cigarettes, drank beer, and occasionally took a few hits of greenbud. By five o'clock he could hardly keep his eyes open. He went to his bedroom and lay naked on his bed.

He slept for the next fifteen hours without stirring.

The next morning, at ten o'clock, Jake called the storage facility where his Corvette was being kept and asked them to deliver it to him. It arrived thirty minutes later, freshly washed and waxed, the battery charged, the fuel tank and all of the fluids full. It had cost him two thousand dollars to keep his vehicle in such a place but he considered it worth it. They had treated the Corvette almost as if it was alive.

Jake tipped the delivery team twenty dollars apiece and then climbed into the car, thrilled to be behind the wheel again after so long being shuttled around in buses and limos. The Corvette was an eighty-four, metallic blue, with every option available installed. It had been a gift from Mindy Snow � an actress he had dated for a time � back during the height of their relationship. He roared out of the parking garage of his condo building and down the winding Beachwood Drive, coming out of the Hollywood Hills and into North Hollywood.

When he turned left onto Los Feliz Boulevard the traffic thickened up considerably, restricting him to no more than third gear, forcing him to stop at every intersection and wait through at least two light changes. He sighed and lit a cigarette, adjusting his sunglasses on his face and his San Francisco Giants baseball cap upon his head. Twenty minutes and four and a half miles later he entered the neighborhood of Silver Lake, just east of Hollywood. There, nestled up against Silver Lake Reservoir, was the 3200 square foot home that his sister Pauline was currently living in. He pulled into the driveway and stepped out

Pauline's house was located at the north end of the neighborhood, which was the most exclusive part. She had purchased it a month before Jake and the rest of Intemperance had gone out on the Balance Of Power tour. It was a two-story of late seventies architecture that sat on a large lot which sloped down to the shore of the small reservoir. It wasn't the nicest house Pauline could have lived in � after all, she received twenty percent of all band profits and was therefore as rich as any of the band members � but it was hers and not a rental. She had put down sixty thousand dollars and signed a mortgage for the remaining three hundred and fifty thousand dollars of the purchase price. It wasn't her dream house, but it was a start.

Gloria Garcia, Pauline's housekeeper/cook/butler opened the door to his knock. She smiled when she saw him. "Mr. Kingsley," she said, her accent thick. "Welcome home. How was your concert tour?"

"Long but satisfying," he said. "And please, call me Jake."

"I could never do that, Mr. Kingsley," she said. "Come in. Ms. Kingsley is expecting you."

"Thank you," he said, stepping into the entryway.

"I hear you had trouble in Cincinnati," Gloria said. "They said you were obscene?"

"They have a strange idea of what constitutes obscene in Cincinnati," Jake told her. "Nothing I couldn't handle though."

"Very good," she said. "You like chili relleno? I'm making some for lunch."

"I'd love some chili relleno," he said. "Or anything else that you make."

She beamed at him. She was justifiably proud of her cooking. She led him through the house to Pauline's office, which was in the back, overlooking the lake. The office was equipped with a large desk, complete with the most modern computer system commercially available, a printer, and a fax machine. Next to the desk were several large file cabinets and a water cooler. Pauline was sitting at the desk. She smiled when she saw him and stood up to come give him a hug.

"You look great, sis," Jake told her. "It seems the good life is agreeing with you." He was telling the truth. Pauline had always been attractive � she had, in fact, been Nerdly's ultimate fantasy girl since he was about twelve years old � but she was positively beaming these days. Her brunette hair was neatly styled in the latest fashion, her skin was receiving the benefits of regular spa treatments, and her clothing was nothing but custom-fitted designer wear.

"Thanks," she said, looking her brother up and down a little. "You look a little haggard yourself."

Jake shrugged lightly. "It's always like this after a tour. Too much exercise from jumping around on stage every night, too much crappy food, too much coke and alcohol and cheap, meaningless sex. Give me a week or so to detox and catch up on some sleep and I'll be my old self again."

"Are you going to be able to detox?" she asked a little worriedly. "I've been getting the 'entertainment expenses' reports from when you were out there. You guys were spending an average of four thousand dollars a week on coke, pot, and booze."

"They didn't itemize that out, did they?" he asked.

"No, of course not, except for the booze anyway, but is there any reason to question the amounts?"

He shook his head. "We do love to party out on the road," he said. "That sounds about right to me."

"And just like that you can give it up?"

"Well... I didn't say I was giving anything up," he told her, "but I will be slowing down once I get back into the rhythm of being home. We're gonna have to start working on material for the next album, after all."

She looked like she had her doubts about that but she kept them to herself. "Well anyway, it's good to have you home. I actually missed you, if you can believe that."

"No, I don't believe it," he said.

She laughed and they sat down at the desk. Gloria stuck her head in and asked if either of them would like something to drink.

"I'll have another cup of coffee, Gloria, thanks," Pauline replied.

"I'll have a beer if you got one cold," Jake said. Pauline glanced at the clock on wall � it read 11:05 � but said nothing.

"Coming right up," Gloria said. "Corona with a lime?"

"You read my mind," he said.

She smiled and made her retreat. Once she was gone, Jake turned back to his sister/manager. "So how are we doing?" he asked her. "Lay some management shit on me."

She laid some management shit on him. "As of last Sunday Balance Of Power � the album � has sold three million, four hundred thousand copies, making it number three for all-time fastest to go triple platinum. It has been at number one on the album sales chart ever since it was released and shows no signs of being dislodged any time soon. Not even the last La Diferencia album � your closest competition � could ace you out this time."

"Ha," Jake barked, grinning. "We finally beat those fuckers. They knocked us out of the number one album spot the last time we were there." La Diferencia was a pop band from Venezuela that had become quite the sensation over the last three years with their feel-good, formulistic music. Their lead singer, Celia Valdez, was the reason for the runaway success of La Diferencia. Her voice was beautiful and she knew how to use it to the best of her abilities, to draw out any intrinsic value contained within the catchy, record-company written tunes she performed. Without her they never would have left Venezuela. She was also very attractive. Jake had met her twice the previous year during the Grammy Awards and she had shot down his advances firmly but kindly.

"They gave you a run for your money," Pauline agreed, "but album sales are not quite the strong point of La Diferencia's fan base. They kicked the shit out you in singles sales though. Every time one of your singles from Balance Of Power started moving up the charts, one of their songs was already there to keep it from making number one."

Jake nodded. "That's what happened the last time we went head to head with them. It's just part of the business. A hard rock band relies on album sales to make money while pop bands rely on single sales. Frankly, I think it shows how much crossover we're getting that our tunes are even appearing on the single sales charts at all. I mean Led Zepplin and Van Halen don't get as many singles out of their albums."

"That's true," she agreed.

Gloria came back with their drinks, setting a bottle of Corona before Jake and a steaming cup of coffee on a saucer before Pauline. They both thanked her. When she left Jake took a drink of his beer, draining it well past the neck. He stifled a belch.

"So anyway," Jake said, "I guess that damn Tipper-sticker on Balance Of Power didn't do us too much harm, did it?"

"No," she said. "I'll admit that you were entirely correct about that. Balance is your fastest selling album so far."

The "Tipper-sticker" he was referring to was the explicit lyrics or content sticker that was placed on any album that the Parent's Music Resource Center, or PMRC, deemed offensive to young minds. The PMRC was a group headed by several prominent politician's wives � Tipper Gore, wife of Senator Al Gore, chief among them, thus the name "Tipper-sticker" � that had declared themselves the guardians of community standards of decency in regards to music. They had formed the previous year in response to a growing media frenzy about satanic and sexually explicit lyrics in rock music which, it was claimed, were leading to teen suicide, teen rape, teen pregnancy, and the downfall of the American family. During the latter part of 1985 the PMRC actually managed to get senate hearings opened up on this subject, their goal to put ratings on albums and to censor those that earned the explicit lyrics definition. Frank Zappa, Dee Snider of Twisted Sister, and John Denver all testified before this senate committee, all of them vehemently opposed to any sort of labeling or censorship of music. A variety of psychiatric and educational experts testified as well, most of them with the opinion that modern rock music was harmful to adolescent development and family values. The Recording Industry Association of America � or RIAA � who spoke for the musicians but who actually represented the record companies' interests, actually caved to the PMRC before the senate hearings were even completed. Or perhaps 'caved' is not the best choice of words. They made a deal in the finest tradition of American politics. They agreed to voluntarily label any album the PMRC deemed "explicit" with a warning label in exchange for the passage of the so-called "blank-tape tax", which added a percentage onto every blank cassette tape sold in the United States. The revenue from this tax was then given to the RIAA to distribute among the record labels they represented � the justification being that it was compensation for the millions of dollars they were losing by people using those blank tapes to record and distribute copyrighted albums. In any case, the Tipper-stickers were born and Intemperance's third album, Balance Of Power � though it contained no profanity other than the words "damn", "hell", and "ass" � was declared by the PMRC to be explicit because of the lyrics to one of Matt's songs called Service Me, which was about having sex with groupies out on tour. National Records put the Tipper-sticker on each one that was produced, warning parents that the contents might corrupt their children and lead to the downfall of the American way of life. This wasn't so bad in and of itself since the Tipper-sticker meant that parents would not approve of the album, which was an almost guaranteed way to get teens to buy it. It was the stigma that went with the Tipper-sticker that had potential financial and legal problems. Wal-Mart, the largest retailer in the world, refused to sell any album with a Tipper-sticker on it. And there were many members of congress and of various state legislatures who were attempting to either forbid the sale of Tipper-sticker albums to minors or to out and out declare them obscene and ban them entirely. Pauline, when the album was in production and it was first announced that Service Me was earning them a sticker, had wanted to cut the song from the album, fearful that if Wal-Mart didn't sell it, they would be missing out on hundreds of thousands of potential buyers in the more rural portions of the country where Wal-Mart was often the only place to buy music. But Jake and Matt had both held their ground, insisting that the sticker would do nothing but help them.

"If people want the album, they'll find a way to get it," Jake said. "Our sales won't suffer, and even if they do, I will not have Wal-Mart or any other corporation dictating what should and should not go on one of our albums."

"A-fucking-men to that, brother," Matt had replied. "Service Me stays."

"You have to admit though," Pauline said now, as Jake took another long pull of his beer, "that the damn Tipper-sticker led directly to your arrest in Cincinnati."

"Yeah," Jake said, frowning. "What a bogus bunch of shit that was." He shrugged. "Oh well. What's an Intemperance tour without getting arrested at least once? At least the cops didn't beat my ass this time."

The arrest she was talking about was on a public obscenity charge. Weeks before the scheduled concert date several prominent citizens of that most conservative city had tried to get an ordinance passed banning any musical act from performing in the city limits if they had an album with a Tipper-sticker on it. When this effort failed the mayor declared that any musician uttering "profane or explicit lyrics" in concert would be arrested and charged with obscenity. Intemperance was specifically warned that several of their most popular tunes � Service Me, The Thrill Of Doing Business, Descent Into Nothing, and, incredibly enough, I Found Myself Again (which the PMRC had apparently decided was about masturbation) � would meet this definition and result in charges if they were performed. The band refused to alter their song line-up and immediately after the show Jake � who had been the one to sing the lyrics in question � was arrested by Cincinnati police officers and taken to jail for booking on the charge. He was bailed out within an hour but the charges were still pending.

"You're scheduled for your preliminary hearing there on December 16," Pauline told him now. "National threatened not to use their legal team to represent you until I got in a pissing match with them on contract language."

"I'll beat the rap," Jake said, unworried. "After all, if Larry Flynt can beat them, so can I."

"I wish I had your confidence," Pauline said. "If they convict you of the charge you could end up doing a year in an Ohio prison."

"It'll never happen," Jake said. "If there's one thing National's lawyers are good at, it's keeping the talent free of convictions in courts of law. They'll go in there and bribe the jury members if they have to."

"You sound proud of this," Pauline said.

"I'm just pointing out a fact of life," he said.

"Well anyway, be sure to mark December 16^th on your calendar. National is making sure it will be a media circus."

"Of course they are."

"I've got some other dates you need to mark down as well," she said. "On December 13^th you and the rest of the band are going to fly to New York and do two songs on Saturday Night Live."

"Cool," Jake said. "That was a blast the last time we did that."

"Each of you has also been scheduled for a couple of record store signings over the next few weeks. I'll get a print-out and your plane tickets to you by tomorrow."

"Those suck ass," Jake said with a frown.

"At least you're getting paid for them now," Pauline reminded him. "Remember, that was one of the sticking points during the contract negotiations."

"How could I forget?" he said.

Under the original contract � which Pauline had been instrumental in negotiating an end to � the band was required to attend any and all promotions National set up for them and would not be paid a dime for their time. Under the new contract National could only schedule them once a week for such events, had to fly them there first class or private, had to book them in first class accommodations, and had to pay each band member $500 per day.

"I've got all the dates and times written down for you," Pauline said. "Be sure you don't forget it when you leave."

"I won't," Jake promised. "How have you been getting along with Crow and Doolittle?"

She frowned. Steve Crow was the Artists and Repertoire representative from National Records who was assigned to look after Intemperance. James Doolittle was the head of the A&R department. "It's been trying at times," she said. "I've pretty much learned to just go directly over Crow's head and onto Doolittle for most things. I wouldn't say there's been anything like cooperation between us. I take a hard-line with them because of their propensity to screw people whenever they can. They, in turn, make every request I ask of them seem like an act of Congress is required because they're punishing me for taking over as your manager."

"Yes," Jake said. "They sure loved it when Shaver was our manager. It was almost like having one of their employees doing the job. Have they tried any more games with the money?"

"Nothing since that little incident when Balance was first released," she said. "That right to audit clause was one of the best things we put in that contract."

Jake chuckled. Under the original contract the band had the right to request an audit of National Records' finances as they related to the band but National reserved the right to deny the request if they didn't deem an audit necessary. And strangely enough, they just didn't seem to deem them necessary very often. Under the new contract the band had the right to conduct audits at any time using any auditing firm they wished as long as the band paid for it. In the first month of Balance Of Power's release, after it had gone gold in two weeks and platinum in four, Pauline started using that right. The first audit immediately caught multiple forms of questionable product tracking and monetary distribution practices that would have cost the band hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid royalties and overpriced expenses. These practices (which National claimed were simple "oversights") were corrected when Pauline threatened to pursue a breach of contract lawsuit against National and to have Crow and Doolittle charged criminally for embezzlement.

"They're probably screwing every artist who ever signed with them out of millions just in sheer embezzlement alone," Jake said.

"Undoubtedly," Pauline said. "In all my years of doing corporate law I have never run across a corporation as greedy, sleazy, and corrupt as this record company. And from everything I've learned, National is far from unique in this corruption. It amazes me they've gotten away with it for so long, that they continue to get away with it."

"But they're not getting away with it with us anymore, right?"

"Right," Pauline replied. "I've audited them four times now, including just last month. They whine and complain every time I disrupt their workday but I think they've learned to play straight � at least with us. Every penny we're entitled to is rolling in our direction, just like it should."

"That's good to hear," Jake said. "So how much did the tour make for us?"

Pauline gave him a funny look � one he wasn't quite sure how to interpret. "What if I told you," she asked, "that our cut of concert profits, including merchandising, was five hundred thousand dollars?"

"Is that what it was?" Jake asked.

"No," she said. "But for the sake of argument, let's say that I said yes. Intemperance made half a million in tour profits. Would that sound reasonable to you?"

Jake shrugged, uncertain exactly what she was getting at. "Sure," he said. "That sounds reasonable."

"Does it? And why does that sound reasonable?"

"Well... because there weren't as much overhead expenses as last tour since we didn't use all the laser and pyrotechnics that National wanted us to use but its still really expensive to truck a concert from city to city."

"So you were prepared to have a little profit from the tour and half a million doesn't sound like an unreasonable number, right?"

"Right," Jake agreed.

"And because I told you it was half a million, you just accepted that?"

"Well... yes," he said. "You're not just our manager, you're my sister. We're family. I don't think you'd lie to me about money or try to screw me."

"Ha!" she yelled, loud enough to startle him.

"What?" he asked, wondering if she'd been dipping her beak into some white powder.

"That's where you're making your mistake," she said.

"What mistake?"

She pulled a piece of paper from one of her desk drawers. It was an official looking legal form with numbers printed all over it. "This is a breakdown of your tour revenue as of last week. It lists all forms of expenses and all forms of income, including merchandising. When you read the bottom line it says that we made $1,116,428, or, to round down a bit, $1.12 million."

"Wow," Jake said, whistling. "That's not bad."

"Not bad at all," Pauline agreed. "It's a little over one hundred and eighty grand for each of us, but it kind of disturbs me how willing you were � how willing all of you are � to just accept my word about how much money you're pulling in."

"Why does that disturb you?" he asked. "You're my sister. You're not gonna embezzle from us."

"How do you know that, Jake?" she asked. "Am I not just as prone to temptation as anyone?"

"I've known you all my life, Pauline," he said, more than a little exasperated by this conversation. "I know what kind of person you are."

"You don't know what's in anybody's heart, Jake, nor do you know what limits of temptation that anyone is able to resist. When you're talking about this kind of money you shouldn't trust anyone blindly. Not even your sister."

"Are you saying you're going to screw us?"

"No," she said. "I haven't screwed any of you out of so much as a penny, nor do I have plans to do so, but I could screw you if I wanted to. It would be absurdly easy to do so. I could've told you all we made half a million on the tour, given you each eighty grand, and then pocketed the rest and none of you would have ever known. And that's only the tip of the iceberg. I could be skimming off your royalties and your off-tour merchandising profits too. All of your money comes to me first and then I divide it up and wire it into your accounts. Quite frankly, Jake, in the amounts we're dealing with now, I'm no longer comfortable doing this. I'm basically an honest person and I like to think I'd never embezzle money but I'd feel better if there was some kind of oversight."

"What are you suggesting?" he asked.

"You need to get an accountant," she said. "All of you need someone to help manage your money for you for and it would make sure that I stay honest. It would remove any temptation I might ever feel for helping myself to a little more than my share."

"An accountant?" Jake said distastefully. "I've heard horror stories from some of the other second contract bands about accountants. They say you should never trust any of them. They'll cheat you blind, steal all of your money, and then send you a fucking bill for their services."

"That's because those other bands are letting their accountants run their money the same way you're letting me do it. I'm not suggesting you simply transfer responsibility from me to some bean counter you find in the Yellow Pages. I'm suggesting you find someone with good references who seems at least superficially trustworthy to help manage your money for you. He'll also be able to figure out how best to pay your taxes come next year � what you can deduct, what you can't, how you can set yourself up so you don't owe as much. This is something that I'm not qualified to do � in fact I'm planning to utilize an accountant myself when it comes to taxation issues. In any case, I will be able to keep your accountant honest because I will know how much money I'm turning over to him. He will be able to keep me honest because he will see all the financial paperwork and wire receipts I get from National. Both of us, working together, will be able to keep National honest."

"Why can't I just be my own accountant?" Jake asked. "I can go through receipts and paperwork, couldn't I? I'm not an idiot. I'm sure I could research the tax laws as they relate to..." Pauline was laughing. "What?" he asked, angrily.

"I'm sorry, Jake," she said. "But would you recognize a forged accounting sheet if I showed you one? Would you recognize fake wire transfer receipts?"

"Well... probably not," he admitted.

"And as for managing your own money..." She laughed again. "I'm sorry, but that's just hysterical."

"What's so fuckin' funny about it?" he asked.

"Jake," she said. "You have pulled in just over a million and a half dollars in the past seven months, right?"

"Right," he said.

"And where is that money right now?"

"You know where it's at," he said. "It's in my bank account."

"Exactly," she said. "You have a million and a half dollars sitting in the same checking account you opened when you were sixteen. It's earning no interest for anyone but the bank and it's fifteen times the amount the FDIC even insures. That is not very good money management. This is not income from a paper route or from flipping burgers at McDonalds we're talking about here. We're talking about more than a million dollars, with much more on the way."

He had to admit that she had a point there. He had meant to start looking into managing his money a little better � he wasn't a complete idiot financially � but he'd just never found the time. Maybe this was like looking after his car or cleaning his house or getting from home to the airport. Sure, he could do it for himself if he took the time to learn how, but why not hire someone to do it for him? After all, he was rich now, wasn't he? Wasn't that what rich people did?

"Hmm," Jake said after running these thoughts through his head. "I find you make a good point, Pauline."

"Good," she said. "I thought you'd see things my way. Now the next step is to start looking into accounting firms in the area, filtering through them one by one until..."

"No," Jake interrupted, "I think I already know who I want doing my accounting."

Pauline looked at him sternly. "You do?"

"Yep," he said, nodding in confidence. "I think I do."

"Jake," she asked carefully, "do you even know any accountants? I mean certified ones with cards and everything?"

"Yes I do," he said. "I know one."

"One? Jake, this isn't like picking someone to cut your grass while you're away. An accountant needs to have references and we need to check out his background."

"We're getting the cart ahead of the horse here, sis," he said. "I don't even know if she's really an accountant or not. I don't know if she'd even do it. I do want to look into it though."

"She?" Pauline asked. "A female accountant?"

Jake raised his eyebrows. "Are you saying a female couldn't possibly be a good accountant?" he asked. "Pauline, I'm shocked at you."

"Shut the fuck up," she said. "You know that's not what I meant. Is this a woman you used to fuck?"

"I've never fucked her," he said. "I wanted to once, but that was back in sixth grade."

"Sixth grade?" she asked. "Who is this woman?"

"Jill Yamashito," he said. "My twin."

"Your... twin?"

Jake smiled, draining the remainder of his beer. "Yep."

Heritage, California

November 26, 1986

It was Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving, when Jake pulled his father's Chrysler LeBaron to the curb at 29^th and N Streets in Heritage's semi-fashionable mid-town section. A small, non-descript office building stood on this corner. The sign out front read: YAMASHITO, YAMASHITO, and YAMASHITO. CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANTS.

Jake got out. He was dressed in a conservative pair of dress slacks and a long-sleeved, button-up shirt. His dark glasses were upon his face despite the overcast sky. A few pedestrians were walking by but none seemed to notice that the longhaired freak they were crossing the street to avoid was Heritage's most famous personality. Pauline stepped out of the passenger seat. She was adorned in one of the business dresses she used to wear when she had worked for Heritage's biggest corporate law firm. The two of them � along with Nerdly, who was at his parent's house � had flown into their hometown six hours before in order to share the Thanksgiving holiday with their families.

"So this is where your twin works, huh?" Pauline asked, looking the building up and down.

"This is the place," Jake said. "Her parents have run their business out of here since before Jill and I were born."

"And now she has her name on the sign too. How fifties of them."

"Yes," Jake agreed. "It's kind of quaint, ain't it?"

Jill Yamashito was a girl Jake had known since kindergarten. They had attended the same elementary school, the same junior high school, and the same high school. They had been jokingly called twins in their elementary school days because they shared the exact same birthday � March 7, 1960. The two of them had been reasonably close friends through eighth grade as they shared a birthday and a similar intellect. Both were always the ones who seemed to know the answers when called upon but both had always been painfully shy. Jake had never been as good of a student as Jill. He was more the classic underachiever while she had been brought up to revere education and excel. They had drifted apart in high school as Jake discovered the joys of marijuana, cutting school, and hanging with his stoner friends while Jill had buried herself in academia, striving for that coveted academic scholarship to the Stanford University School of Business and her eventual place in the family CPA business. Still they had continued to share several of the college prep classes in their junior and senior years and had kept on nodding acquaintance with each other. The last time he'd seen her was the night of high school graduation when they'd hugged briefly after the ceremony. When Pauline told him he needed an accountant, Jill's face had popped immediately into his head, the first time he'd thought of her in years.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Pauline asked him now as they headed toward the small building.

"You checked her out, didn't you?" Jake asked. "You tell me."

Pauline still maintained close contact with Steve Marshall, the head of Investigative Services at Standforth and Breckman, the corporate law firm she used to work for before dedication herself full time to Intemperance. He had done a background check on the Yamashitos, utilizing all of the resources of the S&B empire � which were considerable (and some of questionable legality) � to see if they were worthy of counting beans for Jake Kingsley. He had turned up a wealth of information on them.

John and Laura Yamashito, Jill's parents, had both done time in a Japanese internment camp as children, having been placed there by the American government in early 1942 along with their parents. Though they had been in the same camp they had never known each other back then. Both managed to rise from the poverty they'd been a part of after World War II and attend the University of California at Heritage's School of Business on academic scholarships. This was where they'd met � two of only eight Japanese-Americans in their graduating class of 1955. They married shortly after both had passed the California CPA exam and, the victims of blatant prejudice by all firms corporate and family owned, had instead opened their own small bookkeeping business in downtown Heritage in 1958. There they'd been ever since, slowly developing a reputation as honest, hardworking, and, most of all, resourceful accountants who specialized in small businesses.

Jill, after graduating high school in 1978, fourth in a class of 308 (Jake was 220 in the class with his 2.13 GPA) had gone on to Stanford University on a full academic scholarship and had graduated seventh in her class in 1982 with a bachelor's degree. After passing the CPA exam and receiving her card she could have been hired at any number of corporate auditing or accounting firms but she'd instead joined the family business and had been there ever since, handling an increasing amount of their accounts as her parents groomed her to take over once they retired.

She had one brother, born in 1962, now twenty-four years old. He had shunned the family business, dropped out of college in his junior year, and was now a rookie officer with the Heritage County Sheriff's Department where he was putting in his time working in the county jail.

The firm itself was moderately successful, it's clients mostly small businesses of less than twenty employees � the majority of them businesses with five to ten employees. There had never been a single complaint lodged against them with any government agency at the local, state, or federal level, accusing them of any malfeasance.

The elder Yamashitos � despite a net worth of nearly three quarters of a million dollars � still lived in the house they'd bought back in 1959 � a house that was just around the corner from where Jake and Pauline's parents lived. Jill � who was unmarried and, as far as could be determined, unattached in any way � lived alone in a modest 1700 square foot house in an area of Heritage known as "The Pocket", which was nestled in a bend of the Sacramento River.

"They seem to be as honest as the day is long," Pauline said. "But they've also never dealt with money in the amounts we're going to be presenting them with. Their most successful client is Ralph Polesco, the guy who owns those high-class restaurants downtown. His annual revenue is a little over a million dollars or so. They have no experience with the amounts we're going to be pulling in and no experience with entertainment revenue."

"They're accountants," Jake said. "They'll figure it out. They're honest and hard working. That's what I remember most about Jill. If they agree to accept me as a client, I feel confident they'll do the best they can for me."

Jill sighed. She still thought her brother was being impulsive. "I suppose," she said. "Shall we?"

"We shall," he said.

They stepped up to the door and opened it, walking into a small lobby with a few chairs and magazines. Behind a partition, working at a desk with an IBM computer atop it, was a woman Jake instantly recognized as Jill. She was dressed in a black business suit, her hair tied tightly into a bun. She was not exactly a pretty woman � she never had been � but she was not ugly either. Plain looking was perhaps the best way to describe her. She looked up at the sound of the bell on the door and her breath seemed to catch in her throat for a minute.

"Hey, Jill," Jake greeted her, smiling. "How you doing these days?"

"Jake?" she asked, her eyes widening in surprise. "Jake Kingsley?"

"That's me," he confirmed. "This is my sister, Pauline. How are you doing? Haven't seen you since graduation."

"Oh my God," she cried, actually blushing a little. "I'm... I'm... well, I'm fine. It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you too," he said. "I suppose you've heard I'm a musician now?"

"Uh... yes, of course," she said. "Everyone knows that. My God. What are you doing here?"

"Well," he said, "I have a little business proposition for you."

"A business proposition?"

"Yep. I need an accountant. I hear you're quite a good one."

"An accountant?" she said, as if she'd never heard the word before.

"That's right," he confirmed. "Are you accepting new clients?"

It turned out the firm of Yamashito, Yamashito, and Yamashito were accepting new clients, but they were a bit trepidatious about what Jake's intentions were. After spending a few minutes catching up with each other's lives since high school � Jill already knew about Jake's life, of course, including the infamous sniffing coke out of a girl's ass-crack incident and his three arrests, and Jake already knew about Jill's life, since Pauline had backgrounded them � she brought her parents out to meet the famous rock star and his sister. John and Laura were very polite and excellent hosts to the business meeting. They brewed coffee and served it with fresh pastries from the bakery next door. They sat them down at a conference table in the back and listened politely to Jake's proposition. That was when the trepidation began to appear.

"Mr. Kingsley," John said, looking at him carefully. He was dressed in slacks and a collared shirt and wore a conservative tie. Despite his heavily Japanese features his voice carried not a trace of an accent. "I'm a bit confused as to why you came to us with this business proposition. Surely there are hundreds of accounting firms in Los Angeles who are more familiar with handling large amounts of money from an entertainment personality?"

"I'm sure there are," Jake said. "But I don't know any of those people. I do know Jill. I've known her since we were both in kindergarten. Do you remember when I used to come over to your house to play when we were kids?"

"I do remember," John said. "That was back in the second and third grade, as I recall. You've certainly changed a lot since then and so has Jill."

"I knew Jill all through school," Jake said. "We weren't really close friends anymore after sixth grade or so, but I still knew her. She was always one of the smartest girls in class, always dedicated to whatever it was she was doing, and it is my belief, based on what I knew of her and her upbringing back then, that she is a fine accountant. I prefer to go with people I know rather than people I don't know. If there's one thing I've learned in my time in Hollywood is that everyone is trying to take some sort of advantage of everyone else. I don't want a Hollywood accountant. I don't want a large firm. I want someone with some humanity."

"Jill is indeed a fine accountant," John said. "But again, we're not used to dealing with the amounts of money you're talking about, nor are we the least bit familiar with taxation of entertainment revenue. We keep books for small businesses here � restaurants, hardware stores, bakeries, that sort of thing."

"Accounting is accounting, isn't it?" Jake asked. "And tax laws are something that people like you are supposed to be good at looking into, right?"

"Well... yes," John agreed. "But... well..."

"Look," Jake said, "in the first place, the amount of money we're talking about is probably not nearly as much as you seem to think it is � at least not now. I have a million and a half in the bank and Pauline is about to deposit another hundred and eighty grand in tour profits. My next royalty check should be coming in sometime in January and it will be somewhere around a hundred and fifty grand, depending on how many albums we sell. I'm not a Rockefeller or anything."

"Is that all?" Laura, Jill's mother asked, surprised. "You've sold millions of albums."

"It's a long story," Jake said. "The people making most of the money from those albums are the kind folks at National Records. A good chunk of my income came from an endorsement contract I have with Fender Guitars."

"Interesting," said Jill, who had been mostly silent to this point.

"So what exactly do you want us to do?" John asked. "If you're looking for us to engage in any sort of 'creative' accounting or to help shield you from taxation, I should let you know right now, we do not condone or participate in that sort of thing. We play completely straight with our clients. We are honest people and we do not help others engage in dishonesty."

"That is exactly what I'm looking for, Mr. Yamashito," Jake said. "I want an accountant who will keep me out of trouble, who will keep the IRS from ever being able to say I'm not paying my taxes and who will keep me from spending more money than I should be. I want advice on how to distribute my money, how to invest it. I will be a pain in the ass at times, I have no doubt about that. I like to spend money frivolously. For instance, I spent nine thousand dollars to pay for a ride home from Seattle in a Lear Jet just so I wouldn't have to sit on the bus another day. I like to live in nice accommodations, drink the finest wines, smoke the finest cigars, and go on spur-of-the-moment trips to exotic locations. When I'm involved with a woman I want to spend outrageously on her. I don't want lectures on how to best conserve my money and make it grow, but I want an accountant who will tell me when I'm starting to go overboard and head toward debt. That is what I'm looking for. And I want Jill to be that accountant. Do you think she can handle it?"

"I know she can handle it," John said. "The problem is that I don't think this firm is prepared to handle you. I'm sorry, but I must respectfully decline your offer. If you'd like, I can give you the name of several Heritage firms where I know the accountants to be above board."

"You haven't even heard how much I'm willing to pay for your services," Jake said.

"It doesn't matter," Laura said. "My husband is right, Mr. Kingsley. We are a small business oriented firm and representing a rock and roll musician is just beyond our capabilities."

"Uh... Dad," Jill suddenly spoke up. "Could we maybe talk about this a little?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Jill," John said gently. "Your mother and I have made our decision."

"I think you made a poor decision," she said.

Her parents looked shocked at her words. "Jill," John said firmly, "I've said no to Mr. Kingsley. That is the end of the discussion."

"No," she said, "it's not. I think Jake is offering us a unique opportunity to expand into new areas here. I think we would be unwise to dismiss him without at least a sober consideration of his offer."

"Jill," Laura said, "this is not..."

"I want to do this," Jill said stubbornly. "This is something different than the restaurants and the hardware stores that are barely in the black. I can do this and I want to do this."

John and Laura were obviously quite upset and embarrassed by the failure of their daughter to provide a united family front. "Jill," Laura said through clenched teeth, "we can discuss this later. For now, the answer is still no."

"I think we should talk about this now," Jill said. "I think it's time you stopped treating me like an apprentice and started treating me like what I'm supposed to be here � a partner in this firm. I want to take Jake as a client. I think it will be good for the firm in many ways beyond the money he would be paying us. I will take responsibility for his account and I will do all the necessary research on entertainment income."

"What about our other clients?" John asked. "It sounds like Mr. Kingsley's account would take up a considerable amount of time. Our core clients cannot be made to suffer because of this."

"They won't suffer," Jill said. "I'll work whatever hours need to be worked in order to get everything done on time. You should know that."

John reluctantly nodded. "Yes," he said. "I guess I do know that."

"So what's the word?" asked Jake, who had watched the entire discussion the way one watches a tennis match, his head looking from one to the other.

John and Laura looked at each other, having a silent conversation in a way that only long-married couples can. Finally they seemed to reach some sort of consensus. "Okay," John said. "We'll give it a try, Mr. Kingsley."

Jake smiled. "Very good," he said. "I take it that Jill does not rebel against you too terribly often?"

John laughed. "This is the first time," he admitted. "I wasn't quite sure how to handle it."

"I'm sorry, Dad," Jill said, blushing, looking down at the ground, her bravado now safely buried again. "I didn't mean to... I mean I shouldn't have... I mean..."

"It's okay, Jill," John said. "It's obvious you feel strongly about this so we'll let you run with it." He looked sharply over at Jake. "Of course I'll be supervising what occurs to make sure no funny business is being suggested to her."

"Of course," Jake said, nodding. "And, of course, Pauline here will be providing oversight for everything. All of the money comes through her first. You will keep Pauline honest and she will keep you honest and I will go about the lifestyle my talent has graciously provided me with. Shall we talk terms now?"

"We can talk about setting up a date to talk about terms," John said. "Jill and I need to look into just what we're going to be doing and how much work it will entail before we are able to quote a bid for you."

"No need to quote any bids," Jake said. "Let me just tell you what I'm willing to pay and you can take it or leave it."

"Uh... that's not really how we do business, Jake," Jill said shyly. "You see, there's a process we have to go through in which..."

Jake named off a figure to them. It was a figure he had arrived at by polling several of the Los Angeles area CPA firms and getting estimates for their services. He had taken the highest bid, increased it by fifty percent, and that was the number he gave to Jill and her parents. It was an amount that was more than four times what their current biggest client � restaurateur Ralph Polesco � was paying. Their mouths dropped open as they heard it.

"You heard him correctly," Pauline said with a slight frown. "Of course I tried to talk him into offering considerably less but he insisted on that amount."

"What... what exactly is it that you want us to do for that sort of money, Mr. Kingsley?" John asked.

"Just keep track of my finances to the best of your abilities," Jake said. "And most of all, keep honest, both with me and with the IRS."

"And you're willing to pay that much?" Jill asked. "That's what we would have done anyway."

"I know that," Jake said. "Or at least I suspect that, otherwise I wouldn't have come to you in the first place. I'm not a stingy man and I doubt I ever will be. I'm young and I'm kind of new to this whole business of being rich, but my philosophy on the matter is that I should make those who work for me in any way happy with how I'm compensating them. Happy people stay loyal and on the straight and narrow. As Pauline has pointed out to me on several occasions, we're talking about a lot of money here. I want you to be happy that you take care of it for me, to know that I'm paying you very well for what you do. I also don't want you to be tempted to start playing games with me. I don't like games. I can afford to be screwed out of a thousand dollars here and there and, in truth, I probably wouldn't even miss it, but if I ever find out that someone is screwing me in any way � even a little bit � my relationship with that person will end right there forever."

"So you're buying our loyalty?" Laura asked.

Jake shrugged. "If you want to put it that way," he said.

"And you don't plan on asking Jill or us to do anything illegal?" John asked.

"I would never do that," Jake said. "My greatest wish is to never have problems with the IRS as long as I live."

"In that case," John said, "I think we have a deal. Of course our contract will specify that it can be terminated by either party?"

"Of course," Jake said. He held out his hand and there were handshakes all around.

"I'll get a copy of a contract to you by the end of the next business week," Pauline said. "Once it comes back signed and proper, Jake will make arrangements for Jill � and one of you if you so desire � to fly to Los Angeles and start making some sense out of the mess he calls his finances."

Malibu, California

December 6, 1986

The house that Matt Tisdale � lead guitarist for Intemperance � was renting for $6000 per month sat right on a bluff overlooking the beach. It was a 3200 square foot, two-story complete with wraparound redwood decking and situated on an acre of prime, beachfront land in one of the most expensive zip codes in the United States. Matt staffed his house with an elderly Italian cook, an even more elderly Mexican housekeeper, and an elderly Englishman who served as butler.

"Why," Jake asked him once before going out on the Balance Of Power tour, "did you hire nothing but people over sixty to staff your house for you?"

"Well in the first place," he'd replied, "they're all career servants. Louisa has been cooking for rich pricks since she was twenty. Carmen has been cleaning up rich pricks' houses since she was fifteen, and Charles has been opening doors and laying out clothes for rich pricks since he was twenty-five. They know what the fuck they're doing."

"Uh huh," Jake replied. "But what's the real reason?"

Matt had chuckled. "The real reason is I don't want no fuckin' sex going on with my servants. I don't ever wanna get drunk and be horny some night and decide to stick my salami into the fuckin' housekeeper or the cook. If they're old bitches I won't be tempted. And I don't want them fucking each other either. I want nice, sedate, post-menopausal geezers working for me so I won't have no fuckin' soap opera drama going on to detract from my own sex life."

And so far, that was exactly what he'd gotten. Louisa, Carmen, and Charles were the epitome of efficiency and service � even if they were a bit scandalized on a regular basis by some of Matt's wilder exploits � and so far Matt had not fucked any of them, or even tried, and they had not fucked each other.

On the first Saturday of December, three weeks after the end of the tour, Matt threw a party at his house for all of the roadies, sound techs, and security force that had worked the tour and made it the overwhelming and profitable success it had been. Using sixteen thousand dollars of the tour profits Pauline had wired into his account, he had financed an extravaganza complete with open, unlimited bar, valet parking, bartenders, and cocktail waitresses. The side dishes were all provided by one of the most expensive catering services in Los Angeles County but the main dish � barbequed ocean fish � was being supplied by Matt himself. He had shipped to his house over three hundred pounds of frozen marlin and rock cod filets from fish he had caught on his vacation in Cabo San Lucas.

Each of the seventy-eight road crew members (this did not include Greg Gahn, the hypocritical Mormon road manager that National sent with them, nor did it include anyone else who worked directly for National management) had been given two private invitations to the gathering and as of 6:00 PM, there were 143 people in Matt's house, or on the deck, or out on the beach behind the house. They were all drinking Matt's booze, smoking Matt's marijuana, and snorting Matt's cocaine. The stereo system was blaring loudly with Master Of Puppets the latest album by Metallica and the first to achieve something like commercial success. Matt was out on the deck standing before a huge barbeque and flipping the marinated fish fillets at precisely timed intervals. He was working on his eighth beer of the night and smoking his twenty-fourth cigarette of the day when the title cut of the album began to play.

"Yes!" Matt said, dropping the smoke and making a guitar out of his spatula as the main riff began to pound out. "I love these guys! Listen to that fuckin' guitar, Jake! Just when I thought that we were the only ones making any progress in the shitheap that is modern music, a ray of fucking hope comes along. I want to do some heavy palm-muted shit on our next album. I fuckin' love it!"

Jake was standing next to him, sipping from a bottle of beer and smoking a cigarette of his own. He was pleasantly drunk and slightly stoned, although he had managed to stay away from the cocaine. "I don't know," he said doubtfully. "You think we could pull something like that off?"

Matt looked insulted at the suggestion. "Can we pull it off?" he asked. "Are you fucking high?"

"Actually, I am," Jake said.

"Oh... yeah, but what are you trying to say? Kirk Hammett is a bad-ass guitarist but I can blow his ass away with one hand tied behind my back and my guitar pick taped to my cock."

"I know that," Jake said, and this was true in all respects, "but will our fans like it if we start doing heavy palm muted shit? I mean we've done basic palm muting on Thrill and Service Me, but nothing like Hammett's. Won't they think we're trying to imitate Metallica?"

"I don't imitate anyone," Matt said self-righteously. "I'm talking about improving on it, making it my own sound. I've been practicing the last few days. When we get together to jam I'll show you some of the riffs I came up with. They're fuckin' tight, dude."

Jake was still doubtful but he nodded, conceding for now. "I'm looking forward to it," he said. "I got two tunes I've been working on too. We still up for a session next week?"

"We'd fuckin' better be," Matt said. "If Darren tries to flake out of it like he did this party I'm gonna kick his ass."

"We're going to have problems with him," Jake said.

"Going to? We already have problems with that asshole. He barely said a word to any of us during the whole fuckin' tour, just moped around, drinking and smoking and eating. He stopped moving around on stage, his voice on harmony sounded like shit, and when he did talk it was just to whine about something."

"Usually his damn ear," Jake said. Near the end of the Thrill Of Doing Business tour in 1984 a pyrotechnic explosion onstage injured Darren, who had been drunk and stoned at the time. He had suffered second-degree burns over a good portion of his body and his right eardrum had been massively ruptured. It was the burns that got Darren started on the injectible narcotic painkiller Demerol but it was the chronic ear pain that remained after the burns had healed that had eventually led him down the road to heroin use and a hefty addiction that had included Coop � their drummer � as well. It was only after the new contract had taken effect that Jake, Matt, and Bill had been able to force the two of them into rehab at the Betty Ford Clinic by threatening to kick them out of the band. Both had been off the heroin ever since and Coop seemed to have recovered nicely and was now back to his old self. Darren, on the other hand, had been nothing but resentful ever since and still, to this day, had yet to admit that he'd even had a problem with the drug.

"Yeah," Matt said, "his fuckin' ear. I'd like to stick a screwdriver in that goddamn ear and show him what pain is really all about."

"He's hardly left his condo since we've been back," Jake said. "He's still got that same spy for National Records working as his manservant and he's still going into debt because he's living outside his means."

"I think we need to sit his ass down and have a talk with him," Matt suggested. "All of us, maybe Pauline too. He needs to get his shit together and start being a member of this band like he used to be or his ass is out of here. There's a million bass players out there who'd love to take his place."

"How about on the flight to New York next Friday?" Jake suggested.

"We're going private, right?" Matt asked.

"Hell yeah," Jake said. "NBC is paying for it too. That was part of the deal Pauline worked for us to appear on Saturday Night Live. Fifty grand for the band, deluxe accommodations at the Plaza Hotel, and private air travel to and from."

"That sister of yours is all fucking right. Remember last time we were on SNL? They fuckin' flew us down on a flight that had to make two connections because National wanted us to get mobbed in four airports and then they put us up in some fleabag place in Queens."

"And we didn't get a fuckin' dime for any of it," Jake said. "I remember."

"National sure got paid well for that gig though," Matt said. "Are they getting a cut of this one too?"

"Of course they are. They own the rights to the songs. They don't do anything for free."

"How much are they getting?"

"We're not privy to that," Jake said. "It's a private matter between NBC and National is what they told Pauline."

"Fuckin' scumbags," Matt said. "I bet they're pullin' in a hundred grand for doing absolutely nothing."

"That's the way they like to make money," Jake agreed. "So anyway, we should have enough alone time with Darren to have a talk with him. Hopefully he'll listen this time."

"Yeah, hopefully," Matt said. "I wouldn't count on it though. My guess is we'll be looking for a new bass player soon. If he keeps acting the way he's been acting while we're trying to put together the next album, I'll sure as shit vote to send his ass packing."

"Me too," Jake agreed. "But I think he's still salvageable. He tends to change his act when he knows we're serious about kicking him out."

Matt shrugged and flipped a few more of his fish fillets. "Time will tell," he said. "Time will fuckin' tell."

Later that night, while Matt was enthusiastically fucking the girlfriend of one of the sound technicians while the tech was passed out in a lounge chair on the beach, and while and outrageously drunk Jake was playing a game of quarters with six other people at Matt's dining room table, Darren Appleman was in the Flamingo Club in Hollywood, talking to a skinny, wanna-be actress he'd just met.

This was Darren's first outing since returning from the tour. All of the other evenings he'd spent sitting on his living room couch, smoking marijuana and cigarettes, drinking booze, and occasionally snorting up a few lines of high-grade cocaine. The drugs and the booze helped a little with the black depression he'd been in for the past twelve months but not nearly enough. He knew what he needed to lift the depression but he'd never quite had the nerve to go get it. On this night, however, the depression had lifted a little of its own accord, just enough for him to realize that he was fucking horny. He hadn't been laid since their last concert in Seattle three weeks before.

The Flamingo Club was one of the places that the band had always frequented in the past. It was full of hot women who were always willing to go home with someone from the band Intemperance � even the least important member of the group: Darren. His plan was to scope out the available prospects and make his move quickly, getting the bitch back to his place so he could fuck her and then send her on her way. At that point he could go back to smoking his weed and playing his video games, just like he did every night.

The skinny, wanna-be actress was named Allison and she had fawned all over Darren from the moment he'd asked her to dance. She had been inseparable from him ever since, enjoying six drinks at Darren's expense and four lines of coke from his supply.

"So whadaya think?" Darren asked her as he drained the last of his Chivas and Coke. "Feel like heading over to my place for a little bit?"

Allison smiled. "I thought you'd never ask," she said. "But... well, there's one thing we could maybe do before we leave. If you don't mind, that is?"

"Anything, baby," he told her, stroking her thigh under the hem of her micro-mini.

"I could use a little blackball, you know what I mean? You think maybe you can get us some to... you know... put us in the mood?"

"Blackball?" Darren asked. He had never heard that particular term before.

"Yeah," she said. "Black tar? Haven't you ever done any?"

Darren licked his lips a little. "Isn't that... you know... like heroin?"

"Well... it's kind of like heroin, but not really," she said. "You don't have to shoot it up."

"You don't?"

"No," she said. "I don't shoot it at all. It's hard to get acting jobs when you have track marks on your arms. I just smoke it."

"Smoke it?" He had never heard of such a thing.

"Hell yeah," she said. "You just put it in a bong like it was some bud and burn it. It's a bitchin' rush. You just gotta try it, Darren. I'm telling you, it's the shit."

Darren's mind went through a brief struggle as the rational part � which was being suppressed by alcohol � tried to tell him that black tar was heroin and that even if he didn't inject it, heroin was heroin. The irrational part � the part that controlled his penis among other things � immediately countered this with two very compelling arguments. In the first place, black tar was not really heroin, right? The heroin he used to do was white powder that he'd liquefied with a candle and a spoon and then injected into his veins. This was black tar she was talking about. In the second place, she wasn't talking about injecting it, she was talking about smoking it. If you smoked it, it really couldn't be the same thing as heroin, could it? He wouldn't really be violating the agreement he'd made with the band, would he? Besides, even if he was, what right did those fuckheads Jake and Matt and Bill have to dictate what he could and couldn't do on his days off. They really had no fucking right at all, did they?

"You know someone who's got some?" he asked.

"Damn right," she said. "You see Johnny over there? The guy I was talking to a little earlier?"

Darren looked and saw a tall, well-dressed man with neatly cropped hair and watching eyes. "Yeah," he said. "I see him."

"He's a dealer. You give me a hundred bucks and I'll get enough blackball to keep us feeling good all fucking night."

The hundred dollar bill was out of his wallet in seconds. Allison carried it over to Johnny and spoke a few words with him. They disappeared off into a corner of the club, out of Darren's sight. A few minutes later, Allison returned, smiling happily.

"I got it," she said. "You ready to leave?"

"Bet your ass," he said.

They rode in Darren's limo back to his condo just outside of Hollywood. Cedric, his manservant, was already in bed when they entered. Darren took just enough time to show Allison his luxury condo � which she predictably oohed and ahhed over � and then they retired to his bedroom. Darren pulled out his trusty water bong and a lighter and they sat on the edge of his bed.

Allison opened up the baggie and pulled out a small, sticky ball of black, tarry stuff that smelled like vinegar. She put it in the bowl of the bong for him and told him to fire up.

"You'll have to hit a little harder than you do with pot," she advised. "It's kind of like smoking hash."

"Cool," Darren said, feeling a little better about this when she compared it to hashish, which he'd smoked many times in his life. He flicked his Bic and put it to the small ball in the bowl, sucking hard. The ball burned with a crackling noise. The pungent smoke went up the neck and into his lungs. He held it in. Almost immediately he felt the nostalgic sensation of warmth spreading through his body � it wasn't exactly the same as when he'd shot China White into his veins, not quite as intense � but it was close.

"You like it?" Allison asked, already rolling up another little ball for herself.

"Fuck yeah," he said, smiling, feeling the depression starting to lift from his being.

In all they took three hits apiece. Instead of fucking they both just laid on the bed for hours, staring at the ceiling and basking in the sensation of opiate intoxication. Darren was already thinking that he'd have to go to the Flamingo a little more often and get to know Johnny better.

New Beginnings

Los Angeles, California

December 9, 1986

Jake opened the door to his condo and led Jill Yamashito and her father, John, inside. The house was clean � the maid service had been in just that morning � and he gave them the ten-cent tour. They were both suitably impressed with his accommodations.

So far they'd been impressed with everything they'd experienced on this day, just as Jake had intended. It had started at 7:00 that morning when a limousine, sent by Jake, had picked them up at their respective homes and driven them to the Heritage County Airport. There, two first class tickets to Los Angeles had been waiting for them. They landed at LAX shortly after nine o'clock and another limo took them to their individual suites at the Hollywood Hilton Hotel. Once there they were offered use of either room service or the hotel restaurant for dining then allowed to rest up until eleven o'clock, at which point Jake arrived in yet another limo to escort them to Pauline's house to begin work.

At Pauline's they'd spent about ninety minutes going through every wire transfer receipt and every check Jake had received since the new contract had gone into effect. Pauline had then presented them with a document she'd drawn up regarding the band's contract with National Records. In order to look at the contract � and thus be able to calculate how much income Jake should be receiving from National Records � they had to sign a strict non-disclosure agreement that threatened severe civil penalties if the agreement was broken. This was because National � despite many rumors � had never actually admitted, either publicly or privately, that they'd renegotiated their contract with Intemperance for fear that other bands would try the same thing.

Jill and her father were both a little reluctant to sign such a document at first and Pauline had to explain to them that they would not be able to do business if they didn't. "It's not trickery of any kind," she explained to them. "It's a simple half-page document that's not even written in legalese. All it says is that if details of the Intemperance contract with National Records are made public and the source of that information can be proven to have originated with your firm and National, as a result, reverts to the old contract because of this, your firm will be held liable for damages."

"Which would be considerable," Jake added, much to Pauline's chagrin. "We weren't pulling in any money at all under the old contract."

"So in other words," Pauline said, shooting a dirty look at her brother/client, "as long as you keep your mouths shut about the specifics of the contract, there will be no problems."

Jill and her father both read the agreement several times, word for word, looking for hidden pitfalls but, as Pauline had promised, it was written in a simple, straightforward manner. They signed and Pauline then gave each of them a copy of the Intemperance contract to keep. She also gave them copies of Jake's contract with Gibson Guitars and Buxfield Limousines.

Both had spent the entire trip to Jake's condo reading through the documents.

"So the band is due another five hundred thousand dollar advance soon?" Jill asked as Jake led her to his office next to the condo's master bedroom.

"As soon as we submit a demo tape for the next album," Jake confirmed.

"Will that be before the end of the year?" she asked.

"Not a chance," he replied. "National is already pestering us for it but we haven't even all been in the same room together since the end of the tour, let alone jammed together."

"Jammed?" she asked, confused.

"Uh... yes, you know? Played together? Tried to compose new music?"

"Oh... of course," she said, filing that word away.

"Anyway, I've got two songs I've picked out on my acoustic there." He pointed to the battered Fender up on the wall. "And Matt's probably got one or two in mind as well. We need to come up with at least twelve tunes, maybe as many as fourteen, jam them out and perfect them, and then record them for submission. That won't happen until at least March, maybe even April."

"So your advance will not be forthcoming during this tax year?" she asked.

"Exactly," Jake said.

"Okay," she said. "We won't worry about that now then. What other income are you expecting this year?"

"All the big stuff is paid quarterly or on delivery," Pauline said. "Their next royalty checks will come in January. This includes the royalties from National and Jake's share of the profits from the Jake Kingsley signature guitar from Gibson. Merchandising profits are also paid quarterly and that will come in in January as well. The only thing left before the end of the year is the payments from NBC for the Saturday Night Live performance and the payments from CBS for their appearance on Rockline on December 28^th."

"How much will those be?" Jill asked.

"SNL is fifty grand for the band," Pauline said. "Minus my twenty percent and divided by five, that will be another..."

"Eight thousand dollars for Jake," Jill said before Pauline could. "And the Rockline payment?"

"That's twenty-five thousand for the band," Pauline said.

"So that's another four thousand," Jill said. "Anything else?"

"Two more record store signings before the end of the year," Jake said. "Those are a flat five hundred bucks apiece."

"And two hundred of that goes to Pauline?" Jill asked.

"Yes," Pauline confirmed.

"So another eight hundred then," Jill said. "That means Jake is expecting another twelve thousand, eight hundred dollars before the end of the tax year?"

"Right," Pauline said.

"Okay," she said, consulting some notes she'd made while going through Pauline's neatly arranged files on Jake's income back in her office. "Last year, Jake pulled in one point three million dollars, upon which you paid $455,000 in federal taxes and $33,000 in state taxes?"

"Right," Jake said sourly. "They fuckin' raped me."

Jill and her father both blinked, shocked at his language.

"Sorry," he said, embarrassed. "Hollywood sometimes brings out the crudity in me."

"To each their own," Jill said. "So in any case, this year, you've made roughly $820,000 in royalties and other forms of contractual compensation, not including the twelve thousand, eight hundred we were just talking about."

"That sounds about right," Jake said.

Jill looked at him strangely. As an accountant it was inconceivable to her that someone making as much money as Jake didn't know the amount down to the penny at any given point in the year. "Okay then," she said. "We have a starting point to work with. Now, my understanding is that you do not own this condo we're sitting in?"

"No," he said. "I'm renting it from a real estate company."

"So nothing that you've paid in housing costs over the year is tax deductible," she said.

"Right," he said sourly. That had come up last year as well.

"And all of your travel expenses are paid for by National?"

"Well... either National or someone else. NBC is paying for our flight down to New York this weekend. There is one exception though."

"Oh?"

"When the tour was over I paid nine grand for a chartered flight home from Seattle so I wouldn't have to ride the bus. Isn't that tax deductible?"

"No," she said. "Not if your employer had a way to get you home and you simply paid out of pocket for something nicer. That would be the same as a business traveler upgrading from the coach seating his employer gives him to first class out of his own pocket and then wanting to deduct it. It doesn't work."

"That's a rip," Jake said.

"A rip?" Jill asked.

"Uh... unfair," Jake said.

"Unfair or not, it's the law. This office we're sitting in. When did you furnish it?"

"Last year," Jake said. "I already deducted everything that's in here then."

"I see," she said. "Well... Pauline mentioned that you've kept all of your receipts and cancelled checks for all of your purchases this year in a file?"

"Yes," Jake said. "Well... most of them anyway."

"Most of them?"

"I might've misplaced one or two here and there."

"I see. Well how about we look through the file and see what, if anything, we can deduct."

"Sounds like a plan," Jake said. "Before we start that, I could really go for a beer. Anybody else want one?"

Pauline thought that sounded like a good idea but Jill and her father both declined.

"I rarely drink," John said. "And I never drink while working."

"I've only had one bottle of beer in my entire life," Jill said, somewhat proudly.

"No shit?" Jake asked, trying to comprehend that.

"No shit," Nell said. "Why don't you show me where your file is and I'll start going through it while you get your beer?"

"Okay," Jake said. "Why don't you sit down at the desk there and I'll go get it for you?"

"Thank you," Jill said. She sat in his six hundred dollar chair while Jake went across the room to the closet. She watched as he opened it and removed a cardboard box that had once contained a case of Corona. Written on the side of it in black magic marker were the words: RECEIPTS AND SHIT. He carried it over and upended it over the desk. Approximately ten pounds of paper scraps, receipts, cancelled checks, junk mail, and a few bottle caps and cigarette butts came pouring out.

Jill was appalled. Her mouth dropped open. "This," she said, "is your file?"

"Well... I'll admit it's a little disorganized," he said, "but everything is there. Well... most of it's there."

The two accountants stared at the heap of papers and debris that represented the worst sort of blasphemy to their profession.

"Maybe I'll take that beer after all," John said.

"Yeah," Jill agreed. "Me too."

December 12, 1986

10:00 AM, Pacific Standard Time

The NBC-owned Lear Jet roared down runway 16R of the Van Nuys Airport, lifted off the asphalt surface, and soared into the overcast sky above the San Fernando Valley. It turned left to a heading of 086 and climbed to a cruising altitude of 43,000 feet. Projected flight time to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey � a general aviation facility just twelve miles from midtown Manhattan � was five hours and twelve minutes, which would make it just after 6:00 PM Eastern time when they landed. The plane was not even out of California yet when the first round of drinks � served by Roberto, the cabin steward � was nothing but a bunch of empty glasses and bottles on the way to the trash and/or dirty dish storage drawer.

"Yo, fruit fly!" Matt barked at the obviously homosexual Roberto. "Get another round going here, huh? You ain't earning your tip!"

"Right away, sir," Roberto replied, seemingly nonplussed by Matt's slur.

"And hey," Matt said, pulling a large joint out of his shirt pocket and waving it around. "Is it cool if we burn in here?"

"Well... technically that's against the rules," Roberto said. "But I'm sure I wouldn't notice anything if you were to light that up. After all, we fruit flies are pretty unobservant about tiny little cylinders like that."

Matt laughed. "You're all right, Roberto," he said. "If I was a faggot I'd let you suck my dick for me."

"Give me a call if you ever decide to switch teams," Roberto said. "Will you be requiring a light?"

"Naw, just start working on them drinks. I'll use Jake's smoke. Hand that thing over, Jake."

Jake took a drag off his cigarette, tapped the ash into the ashtray and started to hand it over. Before Matt could grab it, however, Pauline, who was sitting near the door to the service area, suddenly spoke up.

"Uh... before you burn that thing," she said, "maybe we could have a little meeting first? I have a few things I need to go over with you guys and I'd prefer you keep your heads semi-straight for it."

Matt sighed dramatically. "I suppose," he said. "And there is that other matter we have to take care of too, isn't there?"

"Yes," Pauline said. "There's that too."

"What other matter?" asked Darren, who was reclining in the seat next to Coop on the right side of the plane.

"We'll get to it," Jake said, putting his smoke back in his mouth. "Go ahead, Pauline. Do your manager shit."

"Thank you," she said, pulling a notebook out of her purse and looking through it. "First thing is Crow and Doolittle. They're calling me every day and asking when you guys are going to hit the warehouse and start putting together some music for your next album. They seem particularly fond of reminding me of your submission deadline, which is March 15, and then reminding me that that is only the deadline. They'd like something sooner."

"What the fuck for?" asked Matt. "They're not gonna release anything until Balance starts heading down the album chart and it don't look like that's gonna happen anytime soon. Can't we enjoy a little vacation time?"

"They still want the album in production on schedule," Pauline said, "whether they plan to release it by next September or not. I hate to nag, guys, but if you don't have something for them by mid-March you are technically in breach of contract. I might remind you that any breach is grounds for reversion to the old contract, and none of us want that."

"Especially not you," Darren said, getting a little dig in on Pauline, who he most definitely did not like.

She did not take the bait. "Especially not me," she agreed.

"We'll have a submission for them by the deadline," Matt said. "It may not be early, but it'll be there."

"When do you guys plan to start working on your submissions?" she asked. "Just so I have something to tell them when they call me tonight at the Plaza."

"We'll start working full-time as soon as Jake's preliminary hearing is done with," Matt said. "As you can imagine, having the lead singer up on an obscenity charge in some fuckin' Victorian-American shithole of a city is a bit stressful."

"Fair enough," Pauline said. "And you do have some tunes to work on when you start?"

"I've been strumming some out at night," Jake said. "I have three solid pieces and two more in the beginning stages."

"I've got three good ones too," Matt said. "I've also got two more riffs I've composed that I haven't put any words to yet."

"How are the tempo changes in yours, Jake?" asked Darren, who preferred solid tunes with little variation in beat. Jake, to his chagrin, was quite fond of multiple tempo changes in his compositions.

"Only one with radical tempo changes so far," Jake told him.

"I guess I can live with that," Darren said, lighting another cigarette.

"Glad to hear it," Jake said.

"Okay then," Pauline said. "I'll let Doolittle and Crow know that you'll hit the warehouse as soon as the preliminary hearing is settled."

"Unless they throw Jake's ass in some jail cell and deny bail for him," Coop said. "I hear that's what that fuckin' prosecutor is shootin' for."

"Thanks for reminding him of that, asshole," Matt said.

"I ain't sweatin' it," Jake said. "My dad's an ACLU lawyer, remember? He tells me they don't have a prayer and I believe him."

"As do I," Pauline said. "If there's one thing Dad knows, it's First Amendment legal precedents and he's been making sure the National legal team defending Jake knows about them too. Jake will never do any time over this. That's pretty much guaranteed. All this thing is doing is giving you guys free publicity."

"And making more people purchase our albums," Bill said.

"God love 'em," Matt said. "What else you got for us, Pauline? I wanna burn this thing before it starts to dry out."

She flipped a page in her notebook and then smiled apologetically. "Once again," she said, "I hate to be a nag, but how is everyone coming on getting accountants lined up for oversight and taxation of your income? As I told Jake, this is something that I really have to insist on."

"I'm looking into it," Matt said. "I've called a couple of them firms you suggested and they quoted prices to me but I haven't decided on one yet. I just know they're gonna try to fuck me somehow."

"I'm in place to keep them from fucking you," Pauline said. "Just let them know that and make sure you have me look over any contract before you sign it and you'll be fine."

"All right," he sighed. "I'll write their names on a piece of paper when I get home and then throw a fuckin' dart to decide."

"I suppose that's as good a way as any," Pauline said. "How about you, Bill? How you coming?"

"My mom is going to be my accountant," he said.

"Your mom?" Pauline said. "She's uh... not an accountant, Bill."

"She's always done the household finances and she served four terms as treasurer for the philharmonic," Bill said. "And I'll be assisting her. I'm not exactly a slouch when it comes to monetary figures and the calculation of profit and loss ratios. In fact, I've even purchased The Principles of Accounting from the UCLA bookstore. It's fascinating reading, really."

"I've said it before, Nerdly," said Matt, "but I have to say it again. You are a fucking party animal."

"Thank you," Bill said. "The book is tax deductible too, I might add."

"Well, let's see how you do come next April 15^th," Pauline said. "How about you, Darren? You working on an accountant?"

"Cedric's gonna do it for me," Darren said.

"Cedric?" Matt asked. "Your fucking manservant? Are you out of your mind?"

"What's wrong with him?" Darren asked.

"He's not an accountant," Jake said. "Why don't we start there?"

"And he's a fuckin' National Records employee," Matt added.

"He is not!" Darren insisted. "I don't know why you guys are always saying that!"

"Remember when he took all your shit out of your house, Darren?" Jake asked. That had been during the impasse over the contract renegotiation when National had tried to throw their weight around. "He did that because National told him to."

"He was just following orders," Darren said. "He didn't like doin' that. Anyway, he did my taxes for me last year. I got fuckin' raped like everyone else, but he didn't fuck nothin' up. I trust him."

"Jesus Christ," Matt said, shaking his head.

"Well, at least I'll be able to have oversight," Pauline said with a sigh. "And you, Coop? Do you have someone in mind?"

"I'm gonna use whoever Matt uses," he said.

"That works for me," she said. "And Jake already has the prestigious firm of Yamashito, Yamashito, and Yamashito, so I guess that covers that subject."

"What did that jap bitch say about your finances, Jake?" Matt asked. "She figure out a way for you to screw the government out of what's comin' to 'em?"

"No," Jake said, "she won't go there and I wouldn't want her to anyway. She went over everything I have � it took her six hours and three beers � and came to the conclusion that I'm just fucked this year. I'm gonna owe The Man about three hundred and twenty grand come April 15^th."

"Fuck me," Matt said. "Is that what I'm lookin' at too?"

"Pretty much," Jake said with a sigh. "We don't have nothing to defer the taxes in any way. We don't own our homes, we don't have any business expenses, we don't have any investments, we don't have any travel expenses. We're all pretty much stuck just paying a strict percentage of what we made this year."

"That bites ass," Matt said.

"No shit," Jake said. "Pauline's the one who had the right idea with buying that house. All the points she paid and all the interest she's paid is deductible."

"What the fuck's a point?" Darren asked.

Jake ignored him. "She also invested in some kind of wind generated fund that deferred another eighty grand of her money."

"That was rather genius on my part," she said proudly.

"Oh shut the fuck up," Jake said, not unkindly. "Anyway, tell these guys how much you will be paying in taxes."

"About a hundred and sixty grand total," she said. "It should be better next year if Reagan gets those new tax cuts for us rich people in place."

"That's like half of what Jake's paying," Matt said.

"Yep," Jake said with a nod. "The first thing I'm doing come our January royalty check is buying a house and furnishing it with a home office. Then I might invest in some windmills."

"Windmills are fuckin' cool," Matt said, nostalgia in his voice. "I remember this one time on some fuckin' school field trip to the art museum me and my bud did some shrooms on the bus and when we went inside I started looking at this painting of a windmill and it started moving and water started coming out of the spout. I stared at that for like a half an hour. Man, that was a trip."

"Sounds like a good reason to invest in them to me," Pauline said with a shake of the head.

"Yep," Matt said, in all seriousness. "Count me in on the windmill shit."

"All right then," Pauline said. "On that note, I've pretty much wrapped up what I need to talk about." She looked at Matt. "Anything that you need to talk about, Matt?"

"Yeah," he said. He looked toward the front of the plane. "Hey, fruit fly! Where are them fuckin' drinks?"

"Coming," shouted Roberto right back at them. A moment later he appeared, drink tray in hand. He distributed a rum and coke to Jake, a Manhattan to Pauline, beers for Matt, Coop, and Darren, and a Cognac and apple juice on the rocks for Bill. "Anything else?" he asked. "How about some caviar or some goose liver pate?"

"Naw," Matt said, answering for all of them. "How about you go hang out with the pilots for a little bit? Maybe one of them needs a rimjob or something."

"They don't like it when I'm up there with them," Roberto said.

"Well, not that I'm trying to be rude or nothin'," Matt said, "but we've got some serious shit to talk here. I know it's a small fuckin' plane, but you need to get lost."

"Of course," Roberto said, still showing no offense. "Just ring the service button if you require anything." He headed off to the front and disappeared into the service compartment.

"You really should make an effort to be nicer to people, Matt," Pauline chided.

"Why?" he asked.

"Hmm," she said, "how to put this? He's someone who is serving food and drinks to you. If you piss him off enough he might be inclined to put some of his special sauce in your caviar."

Matt actually paled a little. "That's not even fuckin' funny," he said.

"That's why I don't eat the food when Matt's around," Jake said. "Shall we get on with this?"

"Yeah, I guess we'd better," Matt said.

"What are we getting on with?" Darren asked a little nervously, noticing that everyone except Coop seemed to be looking in his direction.

"We need to talk to you about something, Darren," Matt said.

"About what?" he asked.

"About your fuckin' attitude ever since we signed this last contract and made you give up the heroin."

Darren chewed his lip a little. "Hey, man," he said. "I told you that I'm over that shit. It ain't no thing."

"I don't think you are over it," Matt said. "You've treated all of us like shit ever since you came out of the Betty Ford clinic. You don't contribute much when we're composing music, you're always making a bunch of snide little remarks about how much money we're making and how much you're making, and, most of all, you performed like shit on the last tour. You just stood there at your microphone every night, lipping your lines in a monotone voice, plucking at your bass strings, and generally doing nothing to help make our shows what they should be. You're losing your edge, man, and we can't put up with it anymore."

Darren looked at their faces, seeing that even Coop, his best friend, was nodding at Matt's assessment. "So what are you saying?" he asked.

"We're saying," Matt said, "that if you don't get your shit together and get it together quick, we're going to have to send you packing."

"You mean kick me out of the band?" Darren asked, his face still expressionless.

"Yeah," Matt said. "That's what I mean."

Jake expected an outraged denial. He expected yelling, screaming, arguments, defiance. What he didn't expect was what they got.

"I'm sorry," Darren said.

Matt, Jake, Bill, and Pauline all looked at each other. They looked back at Darren.

"Excuse me?" Jake said.

"I said, I'm sorry," Darren said, his eyes cast a little downward but his voice clear and strong. "You're right, I have been treating you shitty and I haven't been playing like I should." He looked up. "I guess maybe I missed the... you know... the pain medicine a little more than I thought. Sometimes it's hard being just the bass player and the pain in my ear... well... that shit's hurting all the fuckin' time. None of that is a reason to act like I've been acting."

"I... uh... see," Matt said. "So... uh... what are we going to do about this?"

"I've been mellowing out since we came off tour," Darren said. "I've had a lot of time to think and a lot of time to learn to like the shit I got, you know? I was depressed all the time but now I think I'm learning to get my shit together. I'm gonna do better. I promise."

"You do?" Matt asked.

"Yeah," he said, dragging on his latest cigarette. "I do. I'm gonna play just like I used to on this Saturday Night Live thing. I'm gonna be there in Cincinnati rootin' for fuckin' Jake from the stands. And when we start jamming again I'm gonna be just like I used to. If I'm not, then you can kick my ass out of here and I won't cry about it."

Another look was shared among the three core members of the band and their manager. A mental shrug was passed around.

"Well then," Matt said, "I guess that about covers that fuckin' waterfront, don't it?"

"Yep," Jake said, hoping that Darren was sincere.

"How about we burn this joint then?" Matt asked. "Sound like a plan?"

It sounded like a plan. Matt lit it with Jake's lighter and they passed it around, all six of them getting three hits apiece from it before Matt popped the roach in his mouth and swallowed it. The rest of the flight passed in pleasant camaraderie and peace. They all had a few more drinks and then, one by one, reclined their seats and drifted off for a nap.

Thanks to a tailwind they landed a few minutes early, touching down at 5:58 PM. A limo, sent by NBC, took them to the Plaza Hotel where they enjoyed a five-course dinner in the restaurant overlooking Central Park. After dinner, Jake, Matt, and Coop decided to go cruise the lobby shops for women � all of them found one, of course. Nerdly took a limo to Times Square where, after donning a cap and a pair of contact lenses instead of his glasses, he was able to pass himself off as an anonymous tourist. Pauline � who really was an anonymous tourist � dressed herself in a slinky outfit and hit some of the classier nightclubs in Manhattan where she received many offers to help clean the cobwebs out of her womanly parts. She turned all of them down and returned to her suite at the Plaza just after midnight.

Darren was the only one who went nowhere. Immediately after dinner he went up to his suite and dug through his luggage until he came up with a small water bong and a baggie of black tar heroin he'd purchased from his new friend Johnny at the Flamingo Club. He had been smoking the heroin every night at bedtime since being introduced to it by Allison. He found it kept the depression at bay, that it allowed him to continue about his life without constantly thinking about the real heroin he used to inject into his veins.

He smoked four hits and lay back on the bed, feeling the exquisite sensation of opiate intoxication surging through it. So far, he was only doing this at night.

"I can control myself," he said, smiling as he stared up at the ceiling. "I can fucking control myself."

He drifted off to sleep an hour later and woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and alive. That night, when they played before a nationwide audience on Saturday Night Live his performance was first rate � the best the rest of the band had seen from him since the beginning of the The Thrill Of Doing Business tour.

Talk of kicking him out of the band was forgotten � at least for now.

The preliminary hearing in Cincinnati turned out to be quite anti-climatic. Media from all over the country were there at the courthouse and filmed Jake � dressed in his best three-piece suit, his shoulder-length hair styled neatly by the band's hairdresser, Doreen Riolo � as he stepped out of the limousine and was escorted inside. For all the fanfare and anticipation, Jake only said two words.

"On the counts of public obscenity," asked the Judge � a middle-aged, tight-assed, conservative looking barrister who, it seemed, would have been at home wearing a wig in a seventeenth century courthouse in Salem, Massachusetts � "how do you plead?"

"Not guilty," Jake replied.

He then sat down at the defendant's table next to the team of lawyers from National Records' law firm � Eric Frowley, the man who had tried his damndest to derail the contract renegotiation before it could get rolling, chief among them.

The hearing took a total of thirty minutes. The prosecutor cited the anti-obscenity law Jake was being charged under. "It is quite clear," the prosecutor argued, "that the defendant blatantly, and pre-meditatively violated the Cincinnati community standards of decency by singing the lyrics to the songs Service Me, Descent Into Nothing, and Found Myself Again, which are about whoremongering, Satanism, and masturbation respectively." He then went on to recite the exact lyrics that were considered obscene.

Eric Frowley then got up and defended Jake like he was defending Jesus Christ Himself before a Roman court. He cited multiple precedents relating to First Amendment issues and multiple precedents regarding what constituted obscenity. The point he based most of his defense on was that in order for something to be considered obscene it had to have "no intrinsic artistic value".

"Obviously," Frowley told the judge, "since this band has sold more than eight million albums, has sold out every concert hall they've been booked in over the past two years, including all Cincinnati shows, and have been nominated for three Grammy awards to date, there is intrinsic artistic value to their work. Calling it obscene simply cannot stand up to a legal test."

The judge was forced to agree. He declared there was not sufficient evidence to try Jake Kingsley on the charge of obscenity and dismissed the case.

Six hours later, Jake was sitting on the balcony of his condo, soaking in his hot tub with a fresh drink and staring out at the rain that was falling on Griffith Park.

Two days later the band met in their warehouse for their first jam session since they'd cut the demo tape for Balance Of Power more than a year before.

The session went reasonably well. The first two hours was spent taking their instruments out of storage cases, cleaning them up, plugging them into the sound system, and tuning everything. The instruments were not the same ones they used on stage. Jake used a top-of-the-line Brogan Les Paul knock-off because its components were superior and it recorded better. Matt used a newer version of the Fender Stratocaster. Darren had a different version of the same Brogan bass guitar. Coop had a different, though identical drum set. Nerdly had an electric piano instead of the Grand he normally used.

After getting everything tuned in and sounding good they then went through the ritual of smoking marijuana out of a water bong. Though there was a long-standing rule about using intoxicants of any kind prior to performing or rehearsing, this rule did not apply to jam sessions when they composed new music. They had found that being stoned during the composition phase actually seemed to help with their creativity.

Matt introduced them to his first new song first. It was called Can't Chain Me. Like pretty much everything Matt wrote, he had composed the main guitar riff first and then wrote the lyrics to match it after. The riff was a grinding, powerful, and complex five-chord progression that Jake and the others were immediately impressed with. They lyrics were quite good as well, dealing with how various people � women, managers, record company executives � tried to control Matt and how he refused to be controlled. It was a more mature version of a typical Matt Tisdale tune and Jake was already thinking that it might just be the title cut of the next album.

They worked on it for almost three hours without a break, refining the rhythm, finding ways to insert the piano and Jake's backing guitar, learning the lyrics and composing when the harmony of the rest of the band would come in. Since this was a subject that Jake could relate to well he had no problem finding and conveying the emotion of the lyrics as he sang them, of getting across exactly what Matt was trying to say.

"Off to a good start," Matt said as they smoked a few more bonghits during their break.

"I agree," said Darren, who, to the surprise and delight of the others, had taken an active and enthusiastic approach to the composition process in a way they hadn't seen since back in their D Street West days.

After the break Jake introduced them to his first effort, the song he thought of as the best of the three he'd composed so far. It was called Cold Reality, a song about how the things you've always dreamed of and anticipated always seemed to be less than expected, sometimes even evil, when you achieved them. Jake wrote his songs by composing the lyrics while strumming out a basic rhythm on his acoustic guitar. In this case � much to Darren's chagrin � he envisioned multiple tempo changes. The main verses would be played with a ballad-like air, heavy on acoustic guitar sound and piano with only supporting solo-chords from Matt's electric. The choruses would be a bit heavier, with Matt doing a distorted electric version of the main riff while Jake played a little heavier acoustic. The bridges, on the other hand � and there were two of them � would be played in classic heavy metal with two grinding distorted electrics and no piano at all.

The complexity of the song meant that they were only able to get the very basics of it settled in the three hours they worked on it. Darren grumbled about the fucking tempo changes, of course, but seemed to remain good-natured about them. Everyone else really liked the tune and was enthusiastic about working it up. The suggestions flew back and forth as to just how fast the tempo should be at each point and how dominant each backing instrument should be put across. Matt, Bill, and Jake, as was usually the case, were the ones to make most of the suggestions.

Before they left for the day Matt plugged back in and showed them the new heavy palm-muted riff he was working on. Heavy turned out to be just the word for it. It sounded nothing like Kirk Hammett's work on Master Of Puppets � Matt, as promised, had adapted the technique and changed it to his own style � but Jake continued to have his doubts about it.

"You got lyrics to go with that yet?" he asked Matt.

"Not yet," Matt replied. "I'm still working on the basic riff. I can pull some lyrics out of my ass later. What do you think?"

"It doesn't quite sound like an Intemperance riff," Jake said.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Matt asked.

"Well... where are we gonna fit Nerdly's piano in with that riff? I don't think it will mix well."

"That's true," Bill said. "It's too fast of a tempo for a piano to keep up. And a riff like that needs to be the domineering sound on the recording, just like Metallica does it. My piano would just be lost in the noise. I don't see any way to mix it in."

Matt grumbled and even threw out some profanity, but he was musician enough to know that Jake and Bill were right. There was no way to mix a piano in with a heavy palm-muted riff without it sounding like shit. "I'll work on it some more," he said. "Maybe I can find a way to slow it down some."

And that ended their first session.

"See you all tomorrow," Matt told them as they headed for the door. "Same time, same fuckin' channel."

They went out to the parking lot where a limo from Buxfield Limousines was waiting to take Coop and Darren home. Jake had his Corvette and Bill had a brand new Ford Escort he'd bought shortly after coming off tour ("It's practical, economical, and environmentally friendly," he'd explained when Matt had called him a fuckin' faggot for buying such a pussy car). Matt had a new car he'd just purchased the week before. It was a silver 1987 Maserati Biturbo that he'd paid $75,000 cash for. It was obvious that he loved the car almost as much as he loved his Strat.

"Anyone wanna grab some dinner?" Jake asked.

"Not me," said Matt. "I've got some bitches coming over tonight and I'm gonna have a little orgy."

"How about you, Nerdly?" Jake asked.

"Maybe tomorrow," Bill replied. "I'm going to go take a shower and then head over to the Flamingo. I feel the need to engage in some meaningless fornication. You gonna come tonight?"

"Naw," Jake said, "I'm still a little burned on the meaningless fornication after the tour."

"That didn't stop you from pounding that little punk rock chick in New York," Matt said.

"I didn't say I was stopping anything," Jake said. "I just said I'm not up for it tonight. I'll see you guys."

They said their goodbyes and Jake climbed into his car. He headed toward a little restaurant he'd discovered last year while rehearsing the Balance Of Power tunes.

The Brannigan Station Caf� was on Wilshire Boulevard at Gayley Avenue in the Los Angeles district of Westwood. It was just a few blocks south of the sprawling UCLA campus but the UCLA students rarely patronized the establishment. Instead, the target clientele were workers from the huge Veterans Administration complex just across the San Diego Freeway and from the Federal Building just two blocks west. Both of these groups routinely trooped to Brannigan Station for breakfast, lunch, and, to a lesser degree, dinner as they headed home for the day.

Jake had discovered the place one day after leaving the rehearsal warehouse on nearby Olympic Boulevard in Sawtelle. He had wanted to stop for a bite to eat before heading to a bar frequented by UCLA students where picking up a nineteen year old slut willing to do anything for Jake Kingsley would be easy to accomplish. The restaurant was everything he looked for in an eating establishment. First of all, it was family owned and run and not a chain restaurant. Second of all, the time he tended to be there � around four o'clock in the afternoon � was the slowest time of the day for Brannigan Station since lunch had ended and dinner had yet to begin. Often he was the only customer in the place at this hour. The most significant reason � the reason that kept him coming back � was that even if there were customers in the place, they tended to be older people in their late-thirties to mid-sixties which meant that very few of them even knew who Jake Kingsley was and had no desire to talk to him if they did know who he was. It was a place where he could eat good food in peace without constantly having to make small talk with fans or sign autographs or deal with religious freaks wanting to tell him he was going to hell for his corruption of America's youth.

He pulled his Corvette into the parking lot at 4:16 PM and walked in the front door. The restaurant was completely empty of customers except for an elderly couple in their seventies � probably patrons of the VA Hospital � sitting in one of the booths near the front. They looked up as he came in, gave him a distasteful look when they saw his long hair and tattered jeans, but otherwise showed no signs of recognition.

Jo Ann Brannigan, the owner of the restaurant, was manning the hostess podium. She smiled delightfully when he walked in.

"Jake," she said, beaming, walking up to give him a hug. "Welcome back. We haven't seen you in ages."

He hugged her, feeling her large, surgery-enhanced breasts pushing into his chest. Jo Ann was quite attractive, appearing to be in her late twenties or early thirties instead of the forty-four years of age she actually was. She was an astute businesswoman who had leased the building and opened the restaurant ten years before using money from her second divorce settlement. She ran it like a well-oiled machine, taking advantage of her location and catering to her projected clientele by hiring well-schooled and well-skilled cooks and friendly, eye-pleasing but non-slutty looking waitresses and waiters. This had allowed her to be financially stable in the upper-middle class when the alimony payments and child support finally ran out.

"It's good to see you, Jo," he told her as their embrace broke. "You're looking hot, as usual."

She blushed in a way that was quite erotic. "Oh you," she said, slapping at his shoulder. "That's nice of you to say but after all those young things you hook up with out on tour I'm sure I look like a sack of old bones."

"Not at all," he said. "You look like a sack of young bones. I promise."

She giggled like a schoolgirl. "It's good to see you, Jake. You up for a little dinner?"

"Do you still have the Philly cheese steak on the menu?"

"You know it," she said. "We wouldn't get rid of our most popular item."

"Then I'm here for some dinner," he said. "You think you can squeeze me in?"

She looked around at the empty dining room. "I think a table just opened up," she said. "Go pick your spot and I'll send Rachel over to take your order. Anything to drink?"

"Corona with a lime," he said. "And keep 'em coming."

"You got it," she said.

He sat down in a booth near the back of the room, the place where he would receive the least amount of notice if a crowd suddenly showed up unexpectedly. Soon Rachel Madison, Jo Ann's daughter from her first marriage, came over carrying a bottle of Corona with a lime in it. A student majoring in English at UCLA, Rachel worked afternoons and evenings at her mother's business. She was nothing but a younger version of her mother. She was naturally blonde (so it appeared anyway), petite, quite cute, and looked considerably younger than the twenty-two years of age she actually was. She could have easily passed for a high school student had she wished. She was wearing the standard uniform of Brannigan's waitresses � a simple pair of tight jeans and a bright red T-shirt that was tucked into the waist. Her medium breasts bulged quite alluring beneath the restaurant's logo.

"Hi, Jake," she said, setting his beer down on the table. She then leaned down and gave him a big hug, pushing those breasts into his shoulder, and a short kiss on his cheek. "It's good to have you back. I was starting to think we'd never see you again."

"I just couldn't stay away," Jake said. "Ever since the tour ended I've been craving a good Philly cheese steak sandwich and a gander of you in your Brannigan's T-shirt."

She blushed in a manner very similar to the way her mother had just minutes before.

"How was the tour?" she asked. "I saw what happened in Cincinnati. What a horrible place that must be."

"I don't think I'll be moving there anytime soon," Jake said. "The freakin' villagers would probably show up at my house with battering rams and torches."

She giggled. "I saw on the news the other day that the judge dismissed the charges against you. At least someone there has some sense."

"I'm sure he didn't like dismissing the charges," Jake said. "He just knew that the first court I appealed to would overturn him and probably issue a reprimand."

"So the system works?" she asked.

"Well, I've been arrested three times now for a variety of charges and so far... yes, I'll have to say that the system works. At least if you're rich and have expensive lawyers like I do."

"Justice for money," she said with a smile. "What can you say? We all know it's the American way."

He laughed. "Styx," he said, impressed with her musical knowledge of an obscure tune and her ability to quote it in correct context. "Half-Penny, Two-Penny. A good lyric."

"Not as good as yours are," she said. "You never did tell me if you really did it or not."

"Did what?" he asked, although he knew what she was talking about.

"You know? Did you really snort coke out of that girl's butt?"

"That would be a total violation of the health code if I'd done something like that," he said.

She slapped at his shoulder again. "You," she said. "I bet you actually did it. You seem all nice and sweet but I bet you have a wild side."

"I'll have to plead the Fifth here, hon," he told her. "That's what my lawyers suggested."

"Someday you'll tell me," she vowed. "So anyway, what can I get you? Mom already said you want the Philly. Anything with it? You want a salad or some soup maybe?"

"Naw," he said, "just the sandwich. That'll hold me until I get to my next coke sniffing from the butt-crack session."

She disappeared long enough for Jake to drink a third of his beer and light a cigarette. When she came back she had a glass of diet soda in her hands. She sat down next to him, uninvited, knowing that Jake liked chatting with her when he was in.

"So how's school going?" he asked her as she sipped from her soda. "Are you taking complete and total advantage of the educational opportunities that California offers you?"

"Now you're sounding like Nerdly," she said. "But school is going okay I guess. I haven't been able to pull a full schedule this last year because I'm working here a lot in the afternoons, but I'm more than halfway to my degree."

"Good for you," he said. "You still want to be a teacher?"

"More than anything," she said.

"Follow your dreams," he told her. "That's what I did and look at where I am now."

"You're in our restaurant now," she said. "Is that where your dreams brought you?"

"This is the culmination of years of dreaming," he assured her. "So how about Stan? How's he doing?"

Stan was her boyfriend, a fellow UCLA student majoring in World History. Like her, his dream was to one day teach high school kids in a public classroom. Jake had met him a few times on his previous visits. He was a nice kid, maybe a little nerdy (not that there was anything wrong with that) but obviously quite in love with her. She had obviously been quite in love with him as well, which was one of the reasons why Jake was able to maintain a friendly relationship with her � since she was already spoken for there was no sexual tension between them, just the normal flirtations. The frown she displayed when he mentioned his name told him immediately that things had gone sour in the relationship.

"You broke up?" Jake asked.

"Yeah," she said with a wistful sigh. "About three months ago. It just wasn't meant to be, I guess."

"What happened?" he asked.

"He asked me to marry him," she said.

"Oh, well I can certainly see how that would put a damper on the relationship."

"Not funny," she said with a pout. "I turned him down."

"How come? It always seemed like the two of you were meant for each other."

"Lots of reasons," she said, obviously not enjoying talking about it. "Mostly I just wasn't ready to get married yet. I'm only twenty-two, right? What's the rush?"

"I suppose," he said. "I'm twenty-six and I haven't done it yet." He coughed. "Uh... get married that is."

That brought another giggle to her lips. "Anyway, I have a new boyfriend now. He's a fourth year med student at UCLA. I don't get to see him much since he's always in classes or at the hospital, but he really seems to like me."

"And do you like him?" Jake asked.

She shrugged. "Paul's fun � when he's around. And Mom really likes him. She says it never hurts to have a doctor in the family."

"Didn't she marry a doctor once?" Jake asked, recalling a random piece of trivia Jo Ann had mentioned once about one of her ex-husbands.

"Yeah," she said. "He was her second � the one whose alimony and child support payments got us this place. Mom was his trophy wife for about ten years while I was growing up. He adopted me, you know?"

"No, I didn't know that," Jake said, suddenly getting uncomfortable with this conversation.

Rachel seemed to pick up on this. She immediately turned the subject to something else. "Anyway," she said, "are you going to be stopping by more?"

"Probably," he replied. "We're back in the old warehouse, trying to come up with some new tunes for our next album. We'll be doing that at least five times a week for the next few months. I'm sure I'll be inclined to stop in a few times a week for some good food." He looked at her, his eyes lingering on her cute face. "And good company, of course."

She blushed again, a shy smile on her face. Jake smiled back at her and then took another drink of his beer.

The band got together in the warehouse for the next nine days straight and worked on developing their new music. They worked straight through the Christmas holiday without so much as a phone call home to their families. For the most part, the camaraderie they'd once enjoyed while composing new music to play at D Street West in Heritage returned to them and was even enhanced some as they knew they were now composing for a much larger audience. Darren, as he'd promised, was as productive a member of the band as he'd ever been, offering suggestions that were occasionally even useful and hardly grumbling at all when Jake introduced a piece with tempo changes in it. They were able to perfect both Cold Reality and Can't Chain Me and started working on three more songs � one by Jake and two by Matt.

There were a few sour points to the composition sessions. Matt was unable to modify the heavy palm muted riffs he was working on into something that would mix well � or at all, in fact � with a piano. No matter how much he slowed it down, it was still too fast.

"This is fuckin' ridiculous, man," he complained to Jake one night as they drank a few beers at Jake's place after the session. "These palm-muted riffs are some of the best things I've ever done. They fuckin' rock, man, you know what I mean? Ain't there some way we can squeeze in at least one song that has 'em?"

Jake was not a big fan of the palm-muted riffs, from Matt or from anyone. He thought them unnecessarily heavy and even a bit simplistic, taking advantage of what was little more than an exploitation of an already common guitar technique. They also limited the musical accompaniment and forced the singer to vocalize in a narrow range. "We're Intemperance, Matt," Jake explained to him. "And Intemperance means we have to have Nerdly's piano in the songs in some way. That's one of our signatures, one of the things that makes people buy our albums, that makes them play them on the radio."

"Yeah," Matt said. "I suppose." He shook his head angrily. "One of the best riffs I've ever come up with and I can't do shit with it because we have a signature sound."

Jake had a hard time commiserating with him at first. And then the same thing happened to him. He composed a song called As You Will on his acoustic guitar over a two-night period. The lyrics were a rich examination of the give and take that went with a male-female relationship. The underlying rhythm of the song was a complex melody that was fingerpicked out on the acoustic and accompanied by a background of piano. Unfortunately, when he introduced it to the rest of the band, only Nerdly liked it.

"How the fuck are we supposed to translate that into a lead riff?" Matt asked him after hearing it for the first time.

"Well... we don't," Jake said. "We'll keep the song basically acoustic and you'll accompany with short chords in the high range and then an extended solo after the bridge."

"No distortion riff at all?" Matt asked, appalled.

"And where do my drums fit in?" Coop wanted to know.

"You'll just keep the rhythm in the background on the chorus and the bridge," Jake said.

"No fucking distortion riff?" Matt said again. "That's beyond ballad, Jake. That's well into the land of easy-fucking-listening shit. That's not Intemperance any more than leaving out the goddamn piano on my palm-muted riffs."

Jake had to admit that Matt was right. As great of a song as he thought As You Will was, there was no way to convert it into a song that would fit with the Intemperance style of play. He was forced to shelve it.

And then there was another song Jake introduced called I Am Time, which was a dark tune about the insidious nature of time passage and how a mere mortal could do nothing to stop it or even slow it down. The base rhythm he strummed out was fast and powerful but again, did not seem to translate well into an electric riff without becoming overly repetitive and boring. And even if it was mixed up a bit � as Matt had a gift for doing � there was no room for a rhythm guitar to accompany it, especially not with piano backing thrown in. Everyone in the band liked the song � even Darren thought it was badass � but as much as they tried to make it sound good using all of their instruments they couldn't seem to pull it off. The closest they came was having Jake play the main rhythm with loosely distorted electric and having Matt play an almost constant solo in the background that matched the rhythm. It was a novel concept but it came off sounding a little harsh because the tempo of the song forced Matt to play too fast, thus drawing attention away from the rest of the instruments with his guitar.

"It's a great song, Jake," Matt said after they'd worked at it for more than six hours, "but I just don't think it's gonna fly, not with all of us playing."

"Yeah," Jake said sourly. He had come to the same conclusion more than two hours before. "I think you're right."

"Any chance you can use those lyrics with a different rhythm?" asked Nerdly.

Jake and Matt were both shaking their heads before he even finished his question.

"You just can't do that, Nerdly," Jake told him. "They lyrics go with the rhythm. They'd sound shitty if I tried to slow it down any or speed it up and put it to a different riff."

"Yep," Matt agreed. "You can't compose the lyrics independent of the song. It just doesn't work that way."

Jake reluctantly agreed to shelve that song as well. They cut out a little early that day, too strained and too burned out to start working on anything new.

"That's a shame, man," Matt said as they assembled in the parking lot before going their separate ways for the evening. "I really love that fuckin' tune. Seriously, I do. It's got a kick-ass tempo to it and the lyrics are some of the best you've done. I just wish there was a way we could pull it off."

"Yeah," Jake sighed, feeling a tension headache in the back of his skull. "Me too."

He left the warehouse and drove immediately to the Brannigan Station Caf�, which was, as usual at this time of day, almost completely deserted. Both Jo Ann and Rachel lit up with smiles as he came in the door and gave him friendly hugs of greeting.

"You know the routine," Jo Ann told him. "Find yourself a seat."

"Corona with a lime?" Rachel asked.

"You know it," he said. "And a couple of Tylenol if you've got them."

"On the way," Rachel promised, disappearing into the kitchen.

Jake sat down in his usual booth near the back. Ever since that first visit he had been back four more times after the jam sessions to eat dinner and have a few beers before going home. Jo Ann always treated him with the sort of warmth due a family member and Rachel was downright flirtatious with him. When she wasn't being flirtatious, she was complaining about Paul, her fourth year med student boyfriend. Jake, for the most part, enjoyed the flirtation and returned it stroke for stroke. He didn't take it very seriously since she had a boyfriend but she was a very pretty girl and after months of extremely short term relationships in which he sometimes didn't even talk to the girl in question before fucking her it was nice to pretend he was a normal human being instead of a celebrity, that he was engaging in a normal flirtatious relationship with a normal girl.

"How was your Christmas?" Jake asked her after she took his order, brought him his first beer, and then sat down across from him in the booth.

"It was all right," she said with a shrug. "Mom and I went to visit my aunt and my grandma in San Diego. It was a long drive up and back."

"I made it in an hour and fifteen minutes last month when Matt and I went down there."

"Oh yeah?" she asked. "And how many times did you get pulled over for speeding?"

"Only once," he said. "The cop let me off in exchange for my autograph on his notepad."

She laughed. "How about you?" she asked. "How was your Christmas?"

"I didn't really have one," he said. "We worked straight through it. I didn't even realize it was Christmas until I came here after the session and you were closed."

"Wow," she said. "That's dedication."

He shrugged. "Or maybe it's obsession," he said. "We are having a good time though. Putting the music together was always one of the best parts of the job � right behind performing it before an audience."

"What about recording it?" she asked, her blue eyes shining. Rarely did they talk about his music.

"That bites ass," he said. "It's a long, tedious, boring, and incredibly repetitive process. By the time we're done I'm so sick of all the songs I could almost puke. Nerdly's about the only one who likes recording."

"I never would've thought that," she said.

"That Nerdly would like it or that it's boring?"

"That it's boring. I always thought it was kind of glamorous, you know?"

"It was for about the first week of the first album," he said. "After that... well..."

"It bites ass?"

"Exactly," he said, taking a sip of beer. "So what are you doing for New Year's Eve? Paul taking you to some cool party somewhere?"

She frowned quite severely. "He's not taking me anywhere," she said. "He's working in the hospital again."

"On New Year's Eve?" he asked. "Don't they give those guys a Christmas break?"

"From the classroom they do," she said. "They still have hospital rotations for them. He actually volunteered for New Year's Eve duty. He says it's one of the busiest nights of the year and he doesn't want to miss it."

"Oh well," Jake said, making an attempt to defend a fellow male. "Eventually this will all pay off, won't it? He'll finish school at the end of the year and you'll have more time together."

"Hardly," she said. "He'll start his residency right after school is over and I'll never see him after that. They make them work thirty-six hour shifts with only twelve off in between."

"That does cut down on the together time a bit, doesn't it?"

"I can always come over and watch him sleep, I suppose."

"Yeah, I suppose," Jake agreed. He took another drink. "Listen," he said, "I'm going over to Matt's place on New Year's Eve. He's throwing kind of a private party, just a few people we know having some drinks and maybe smoking a little weed. If you're just going to be sitting home alone anyway why don't you come with me?"

She looked stunned by his invitation, her face flushing, her eyes finding it hard to look at his face. "You want me to come to Matt's party?" she asked. "At his house?"

"If your boyfriend won't like it that's cool," Jake said. "I just thought maybe you'd like to get out for a night and hang out. It's no big deal if you can't. You won't hurt my feelings."

She seemed at a loss for words. "Uh... well... what about your date?" she finally blurted. "Wouldn't she get mad if you brought me with you?"

"I don't have a date," Jake told her. "I haven't been seeing anyone lately."

"Really?" she asked. "But you're Jake Kingsley."

"That's what they call me," he confirmed. "I've had a few dates and a few casual encounters but I haven't been seeing anyone since I was dating this female cop last year."

"You dated a cop?" she asked, wondering if he was making that up.

"It's a long story," he said. "And not a very happy one either. So what do you think? I'd hate to go to Matt's party stag. The other guys would make fun of me for it."

"Uh... well... sure," she said. "I'd love to come."

"Very good," he said. "And you can tell Paul it's all platonic."

"I don't think I'm going to tell him about this," she said with a giggle.

"To each their own," he said. "Write down your address for me before I leave and I'll pick you up about eight o'clock in the limo."

"The limo?" she asked, paling a bit. "You mean... a limo?"

"I don't like to drink and drive," Jake said. "Is that okay?"

"Of course... but... but... what should I wear?"

"Anything you want," Jake told her. "It's a very casual affair."

Pasadena, California

December 31, 1986

Rachel ended up wearing a black, thigh-length cocktail dress that clung to her body quite alluringly. Her toned legs were clad in dark nylons. She wore three-inch patent leather high heels on her feet. Her blonde hair � which was usually tied up in a ponytail at the restaurant � was styled and hanging down around her shoulders. Her face was carefully and expertly made up with just the right amount of blush, eye shadow, and bright red lipstick that glistened in the light.

When she opened the front door of her Pasadena apartment to Jake's knock he couldn't help but feel a sharp twinge of lust go coursing through him. "You are absolutely beautiful," he told her, quite truthfully.

She blushed, her long eyelashes batting just a little. "Thank you," she said shyly. "And you look... well... nice too."

He laughed. He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, tennis shoes, and an old blue sweater. "I look like a skid row bum next to you," he said. "I told you it was casual."

"Do you think I'm overdressed?" she asked, suddenly alarmed.

"Not at all," he assured her. "You'll have all the heads turning. I guarantee it. Are you ready to go?"

"Uh... sure," she said, "but before we go... well... can you come inside for just a second and meet my roommate? She doesn't believe I'm really going out with Jake Kingsley."

He went inside and met her roommate. She was a voluptuous brunette with large, jiggling breasts. She was dressed in a leather mini-skirt and a pair of knee-high boots, obviously about to go out on a date of her own. Her mouth dropped open when she saw Jake and she actually screamed, a shrill, piercing cry of worshipful disbelief.

"Oh my Gawd!" she yelled, bouncing over to him. "It really is you. She wasn't just fucking with me."

"It really is me," Jake said. "She wasn't just fucking with you."

"Oh my Gawd, oh my Gawd, ohmygawd!!" she yelled, bouncing up and down in excitement.

Rachel was clearly embarrassed by her roommate's reaction. It took her more than a minute to calm her down enough to make introductions � the roommate's name was Maureen. Jake took it in stride. He was quite used to women reacting in this manner when in his presence. He instinctively knew that if he wanted to, he could fuck Maureen right now, that she would accompany him to her bedroom right in front of Rachel if he only just asked. He didn't ask. Eventually he signed an autograph for her and told her it was time that he and Rachel got going. Maureen followed them downstairs, still bouncing excitedly and proclaiming "oh my Gawd!" every few seconds, saying she wanted to see the limo.

It was a standard stretch limousine, so common to Jake that he hardly even noticed it anymore. Both girls fawned over it, ogling the leather seats, running their hands over the window controls, drooling over the fully stocked bar. Finally, after more than ten minutes of showing them the various features, Maureen bid them a reluctant goodbye and went back into the house. Jake and Rachel settled into the seats near the back and Mario, their driver for the night, closed them inside. A minute later they were off, heading toward Malibu.

"Are you sure it was a good idea introducing her to me?" Jake asked. "Won't she go telling all your friends at school that you went out with me?"

"Probably," Rachel said, still looking around in awe.

"And won't word of that make it back to your boyfriend? I really don't like to make an enemy out of a man who might someday be treating me in the emergency room."

"It might," she said with a shrug. "I'm not really sure I'm going to be dating Paul much longer anyway, so what does it matter?"

"I see," Jake said, a touch of nervousness worming through him. He decided to treat it as he always did � with alcohol. "Would you like a drink?"

She did. He mixed her a whiskey sour and himself a rum and coke.

They arrived at Matt's Malibu beach house twenty minutes later. Mario held the door open for them and they stepped out, climbing the porch steps to the front door. Matt's butler opened it within seconds of the doorbell button being pushed. He led them inside to the entertainment room, where most of the people were gathered. Music was playing from the sound system at a volume just below the conversation dampening point. A keg of Foster's beer � an import from Australia � had been set up next to the bar. Nerdly and Coop were playing a game of pool at the table in the center of the room. Each had a young woman dressed in slutty clothing with them. Pauline was talking to Darren over in a corner. Another sluttily dressed woman was hanging on Darren's arm. Pauline had apparently come stag. Matt was over near the stereo system, loading CDs into his forty-eight disc changer. He had a drink sitting on the stereo cabinet and two women � one a petite brunette in a pair of hot pants, the other a demurely dressed redhead who looked like a librarian � standing next to him.

"Holy fuck!" Matt proclaimed when Jake and Rachel walked up to him. "Is this the waitress at that chow joint you took me to that one time?"

"This is her," Jake confirmed. "Rachel, I trust you remember Matt? He's kind of hard to forget."

"Hi, Matt," Rachel said shyly. "Nice place you got here."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Matt said, looking her up and down. "You're hot, baby! You oughtta wear that outfit when you're waiting tables. I bet your tips would go up."

She wasn't quite sure whether Matt was insulting her or not. Jake assured her that he meant that as one of his deepest and most heartfelt compliments.

"Fuck yeah, I do," Matt proclaimed. "You're the shit."

The party settled into gear. Everyone had a few drinks and then Matt broke out his newest acquisition � an electric water bong. "It doesn't actually burn the shit," he explained. "It just heats it up and vaporizes the THC for you. You can hardly feel the hit at all but it'll fuck you up like an F-111 over Libya."

He took the bong around to each person, refilling it after each hit from a large bag of green buds and explaining over and over how it worked. Rachel eyed it nervously as it came their way, sipping from her third whiskey sour.

"I've only smoked pot like twice, Jake," she whispered to him. "I'm a little nervous about it."

"You don't have to smoke it if you don't want to," he said. "We're here to have a good time. Nobody's gonna pressure you."

She thought that over for a few minutes and then decided to go for broke. She took two tremendous hits when the bong was given to her. Almost instantly her eyes began to glaze over. "Wow," she said. "I've never smoked anything like that before."

"Only the best in my house," Matt told her. "Only the fuckin' best. You in on this shit, Jake?"

Jake was in on it. He took two hits himself and was soon feeling quite all right.

As the night went on people gathered in small groups, talked, broke apart into other groups, and then talked some more. They munched on mushrooms stuffed with crab and cheese, finger sandwiches, taquitos smeared in guacamole, and several other appetizers prepared by Louisa, Matt's cook. They drank and smoked cigarettes. Matt, Darren, Coop, and a few of their women all snorted some cocaine from the edge of the pool table. Through it all Rachel stayed by Jake's side, flirting gently with him and making a point to touch his arm, his shoulder, his back whenever the opportunity arose. Several times she was a bit careless with her skirt when she sat down, letting Jake see that she was wearing frilly black panties beneath the nylons. It seemed that her boyfriend was the furthest thing from her mind right now.

Jake wasn't quite sure whether he should make a serious move on her or not. He genuinely liked her company and he knew that if they ended up having sex it would change their relationship, probably for the worst. Sex usually did that. And then there was the question of her boyfriend. She might not be thinking about him but Jake was. He didn't like to be thought of as a man who stole another man's girlfriend. But on the other hand, she was very attractive. As more drinks went down his throat, as he took more bonghits, his better judgement began to retreat to the back of his brain and his little head began to assert itself as the entity in charge.

"Do you want to go out to the balcony and look at the ocean?" he asked her just after ten thirty.

"Sure," she said, blushing a little, her leg rubbing against his.

He led her out the back door, the one that led to the ocean side of the wraparound balcony. The lights had already been turned out and the ocean air was brisk. Jake immediately heard the sound of a harmonica being played from somewhere to his right. He turned in that direction just as Rachel let out a gasp and a startled "oh my Lord."

"Jesus," Jake said, shaking his head a little. The harmonica was being played by Matt, who was sitting in one of the deck chairs next to the hot tub. Inside the hot tub were the two girls who were Matt's dates for the night. They were both naked and hotly caressing each other's bodies, their tongues in each other's mouths.

"Wassup?" Matt said nonchalantly, taking the harmonica from his mouth. The two girls didn't even break stride. "I'm just adding a little musical score to the action out here. You guys wanna stay and watch?"

"Uh... no, maybe later," Jake said. "We'll go over to the side of the house."

"Suit yourself," Matt said, taking a sip from his drink.

Jake led Rachel � who was still quite agape � over to the corner of the house, as far away as they could get from the hot tub while still being able to see the ocean.

"Are you okay?" Jake asked her.

"Those two girls were... were... and Matt was just... he... I mean... does this kind of thing go on a lot with you guys?"

"With Matt it does," Jake said. "He's kind of like a kid in a candy store sometimes. Do you want me to take you home?"

"No," she said immediately. "I'm sorry. I'm not a prude or anything. I've just never seen anything like that before. I've never even imagined something like that before."

"I'm sorry," Jake said. "Sometimes I forget how shocking our lifestyle might seem to someone who hasn't been around it."

"Is he going to... you know... have sex with them? Or are they just lesbians?"

"Oh he'll have sex with them all right," Jake said. "He's just enjoying a little warm-up action right now." He slid closer to the rail and put his arm around her, pulling her next to him. "How about we forget about that for the moment and just enjoy the ocean?"

She stiffened a little at first but finally allowed herself to snuggle into him. She laid her head on his shoulder and they simply stood there for a few minutes. The sound of the harmonica started up again, drifting to them on the breeze.

"He really is good with that thing," Rachel said. "If you can forget what's going on while he's playing it it's actually kind of... you know... romantic."

"Yeah," Jake said, playing with a lock of her hair. "I didn't even know he played the harmonica." He listened to the melody Matt was putting out. It was sweet and melancholy at the same time. There wasn't a note out of place or played sour, this despite the fact that Matt was loaded up with three different kinds of intoxicants and probably sporting a hard-on. Jake began to listen more closely, straining to hear the music.

Rachel turned her face up to Jake, signaling in that age-old manner that she wanted him to kiss her. But Jake didn't kiss her. Rachel was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. His ear was still tuned to Matt's harmonica and an idea � a crazy, probably impractical idea � was starting to form in his head.

"Jake?" Rachel asked, confused, wondering why Jake was staring straight ahead blankly. Was he having a seizure or something? "Jake?" she said, a little louder this time.

"Harmonica," Jake whispered. "Son of a bitch."

"Jake, what are you talking about?"

He shook his head a little, seeming to clear it. He was clearly excited about something and it wasn't Rachel. "Come on," he told her. "I need to talk to Matt for a second."

"You want to go... go back over there?" she asked.

"You can stay here if you want," he said. "This is important. Really it is."

He started heading back toward the hot tub. She hesitated for a second, wondering what the hell was going on, and then followed, more than a little nervously. When they arrived back at the scene of the action the action in question had progressed quite a bit. The redhead was now sitting on the edge of the tub, shivering in the night air, and the brunette had her face buried between her legs, lapping away at her. Matt was playing like mad on the harmonica, his eyes drinking in the sight, his shoulders moving back and forth to the rhythm. He looked up when they came tromping over.

"Decided to watch the show after all?" Matt asked. "Pull up a chair."

Jake wasn't looking at the two women though (although Rachel couldn't take her eyes off of them). He was looking at Matt. "Where did you learn to play the harmonica like that?" he asked him.

"This?" Matt asked with a shrug. "I've always known how to play it. It was the first instrument I learned how to play when I was a kid. I've had this one since I was about twelve or so."

"No shit?" Jake asked. "You're a fuckin' master with that thing."

"I'm a musician, Jake," Matt said. "And a fuckin' good one at that. Why does it surprise you that I can play the harmonica?"

"I never really thought about it before," Jake said. "I think I have an idea."

"What?"

"Come in the house," Jake said.

"Right now?" Matt asked. "In case you failed to notice, I'm about to get into some serious double-team action here."

"You can get action anytime," Jake told him. "Come in the house. Right now! And bring that thing with you."

Jake pulled him to his feet and practically dragged him inside. The party was still in full swing and the stereo was blaring out Earthstone's latest CD. Jake went over and shut it off, causing silence to descend upon the entertainment room.

"What the fuck are you doing, Jake?" Matt asked. "Tell me what this shit is about."

"Get me a guitar," he said. "An acoustic."

"A guitar? Right now? What the fuck for?"

"Just do it," Jake said.

Matt seemed about to say something else but then he took a good look at Jake's face. He turned to Charles, the butler. "Hey, Chuckie," he said. "Go up to my office and grab that Brogan six-string that's stuffed in the closet. Bring a couple of picks down too."

"Right away, sir," Charles said. He headed for the staircase.

"What's going on?" asked Nerdly, who had been making out with his date when the interruption came.

"Ask Mr. Coitus Interuptus here," Matt said.

"I think I found a way to work I Am Time," Jake said.

"What?" asked Darren. "How?"

"Oh no," Matt said, shaking his head in disgust. "You can't seriously be thinking what I think you're thinking, are you?"

"I think I am," Jake said. "I play a solid backing with my guitar and we substitute the lead with Matt's harmonica."

The rest of the band all stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"No lead?" Coop asked. "Are you high?"

"Yes, I am," Jake said. "That's how I got the idea."

"Jake," Matt said gently, as if he were dealing with an unpredictable psycho, "we can't not have a lead guitar in one of our tunes. That's even worse than not putting Nerdly's piano in. That's not even rock and roll."

"I know it sounds crazy," Jake said, "but I think we can work it. Just play the same notes at the same tempo on the harmonica as you were doing on the guitar when we tried to nail it down. It'll mix. I'm sure of it."

"That might be true," Matt said, "but it won't be a hard rock song, it'll be blues. We're a hard rock band, not a blues band, remember?"

"Just try it," Jake said. "Right here, right now. I'll play your acoustic and sing the lyrics. You play lead on the harmonica. Just do it once and see what it sounds like."

Matt sighed. "All right," he said. "I'll try it. And then can I get back to my fornication?"

"Of course," Jake assured him.

Charles came downstairs carrying a white Brogan acoustic guitar by the neck. He handed it to Jake along with a couple of guitar picks. Jake set it in his lap and cracked his knuckles, limbering up his fingers. He then picked up the guitar and gave it a quick strum. It was slightly out of tune but not enough to matter for this particular experiment. He put his left hand on the neck, grabbing an F chord, and then began to strum a nothing rhythm, just to get the feel of the unfamiliar guitar.

"You ready?" Jake asked Matt.

"Yeah," he said, putting the harmonica to his lips. "I'm fucking ready. Let's get this shit over with."

Jake nodded and began to strum out the rhythm to I Am Time, his fingers making the rapid chord changes, his right hand strumming the strings. The melody was infectious and within seconds all who had never heard it were tapping their feet and shrugging their shoulders to the rhythm. The opening of the song was composed to start with only the rhythm guitar. After the first verse and the first chorus, the drums, bass, piano, and, as Jake now hoped, Matt's harmonic would kick in.

"I'm the force that can't be stopped, I'm the power that will not wait

"I pull your life along, I am the master of your fate

"From the moment you are born I'm the one you can't defeat

"You will curse my very name yet I'll still march at my own beat

"I am time, I am your enemy

"I'll undermine your sense of dignity

"I'll rob you of your youth and someday I'll rob you of your life

"There's nothing you can do but come to terms with my strife

"I am time... I am time, yeah!"

Jake began to play harder, a little faster, changing the tempo to the main rhythm of the song. Matt began to play his harmonica, mimicking the guitar solo he'd played during the jam sessions. His playing was listless at best, with no emotion whatsoever coming forth. Jake stopped playing before he even started the longer, more intense second verse.

"What?" Matt asked. "Why'd you stop?"

"That sounds like shit," Jake said.

"I already told you it would sound like shit," Matt said. "Can I get back to the fuckin' hot tub now?"

"No," Jake said, "I mean you sound like shit. You were playing that thing like it was a pussy full of pus. Play it like it's a clean, freshly shaven pussy. Play it like you were out there on the balcony when your two sluts were licking each other out."

"Dude," Matt said, "I was playing in 'I'm about to get laid by two lesbo bitches' mode out there. That's a happy song. This is a dark tune about getting old and having everything slip away from you. It's a bitchin' tune, dude, but it ain't a happy tune."

"Then play it sad and mournful," Jake said. "Put the goddamn emotion of the song into that harmonica."

Matt took a deep breath. He looked around to see that everyone was staring at him expectantly. "Okay," he said, "I'll try again. But first, I need a couple of hits. Where's that fuckin' bong at?"

Charles immediately located the bong and the now diminished bag of marijuana. He brought it over to his boss and loaded up a large hit for him. "Your cannabis, sir," he said, presenting it to him.

"Thanks, Chuckie," Matt said. He put the mouth of the bong to his own mouth and hit the button. A cloud of steam-like gas formed in the chamber and Matt sucked it deeply into his lungs. He held it for almost thirty seconds and then blew it out. "Hit me again," he said.

Charles hit him again, putting an even larger hit in this time. Matt sucked it down. After exhaling he took a few breaths and then picked up the harmonica again. "Okay," he said. "I think I got this thing in perspective now, Jake. Let's do it again."

Jake nodded. He strummed a few open chords and then grabbed the neck and began to play, going through the opening sequence again. He belted out the first verse and then the first chorus, stretching out the final word, pausing for the briefest second, and then launching into the main rhythm. Matt began to play the harmonica again, winding up into a braying accompaniment that was worlds different from his first effort. This time it was obvious that he was feeling the music. He blew into the organ with force and emotion, his fingers moving over the holes and extracting a sweetly mournful sound that mixed almost perfectly with the rhythm.

"Yeah," Nerdly said, excited, his fingers itching to pound on some piano keys and throw his own efforts in but Matt, unfortunately, did not own a piano.

"Play it, Mattie!" Coop yelled, drumming on his knees with his hands.

"You got it!" Darren said, forgetting for the first time tonight about the nice hit of black tar heroin he was going to smoke when he got home.

Jake sang and strummed his way through the second verse, which was much longer, much more in depth about the insidious nature of time. Matt continued to play along, hitting high notes and low notes, drawing out some and sharpening others, always keeping perfectly in rhythm. Pauline and the other women were now softly clapping their hands to the beat of the song, all of them smiling in awe as they witnessed the birth of a song. Even Charles � who hated rock music like the Arabs hated the Jews � was bobbing his head as he heard the composition.

Jake went through the second chorus, which was twelve lines instead of the five that had been present in the first. He then launched into an extended bridge in which the rhythm picked up in intensity and speed, the words pouring out of his mouth in machine-gun style. Matt kept right up with it, bending his neck and raising his head to the ceiling on several occasions. After the bridge was a solo � originally intended for a guitar, of course. Matt belted it out on the harmonica, increasing his volume and tempo, his fingers flying, his mouth inhaling and exhaling in just the right manner.

"Wow," Rachel said, staring in awe at the two musicians. She had never really been an Intemperance fan at all, preferring country music and the standard eighties staples that she saw on MTV. Even after meeting Jake and becoming friends with him, the only Intemperance songs she had heard were those that appeared on MTV. She came to the realization that Jake really was a talented musician and not just a momentary sensation.

The third verse of the song was played even faster, almost suicidal in tempo. Jake's fingers were a blur on the neck, his pick hitting the strings with almost enough force to cause damage. His voice belted it out, carrying across the room. And Matt continued to hold up his end on the harmonica, throwing down a melodious accompaniment that seemed to bear no relationship whatsoever to the blues, that was pure, unadulterated rock and roll.

After the final verse ended they were in no man's land. They had never composed beyond this point since they'd never been able to dial in the main part of the tune to their satisfaction. They did not stop now, however. Jake continued to strum, keeping up with the pace that had been set and Matt went into a complex and amazing harmonica solo that lasted more than two minutes. Jake did some voice work during the solo, mostly just repeating the title of the song, mixing it up with some variations.

"I am time... yeah. I am time. Time. I am tiiiiiiiiiiimme, yeah, yeah, yeah, time."

They finally wound up in an ending that wasn't quite coordinated but that did manage to bring closure to the song. Jake slowly reduced the tempo down to an almost ballad-like pace and Matt let the harmonica wind down into a long, drawn out, final note.

"Fuck yeah!" said Coop, standing up and clapping both Matt and Jake on the back. "That was fuckin' awesome!"

"Damn right," said Darren.

"I must concur," said Nerdly. "When we mix the piano in and add drums and a bass beat, it will be most aesthetic to the cultured ear."

Pauline, Charles, Rachel, and even Matt's two women � both of whom were covered in towels and sitting on the couch � all agreed with this consensus.

"You were right, Jake," Matt said, signaling to Charles for a beer. "It mixed well and it wasn't blues. I liked it. I liked it a lot."

"You really are a master with that thing, Matt," Jake said. "I stand in awe."

"Don't you always stand in awe?" Matt asked.

"As much as you do of me," Jake said with a smile. "So anyway, the real question is, should we keep working on it? It's not exactly classic Intemperance."

"True," Matt said, "but if we do it right, it is a radical new form of hard rock. Nobody's ever done anything like this before."

"I think people will like it," Nerdly said. "The real question is whether Crow and Doolittle will use their veto power on it. You know how they are about formulization."

"Yeah," Jake said with a frown. Crow and Doolittle were both of the opinion that every follow-up to a successful album should sound as much like the original as possible. "They might shoot it down."

"Well," said Matt, "let's start working it tomorrow and see what the final version sounds like. We'll put it on the demo and push as hard as we can to get it included. Hell, maybe we could push it off as a filler tune."

"Sounds like a plan," Jake said.

The five band members spent the next hour discussing the new tune and the various ways in which it should be played when they started working on the final version. They ignored everyone around them as they talked and at one point Matt even suggested that they all hop in their limos and take a ride out to the rehearsal warehouse and start working on it tonight. Only the fact that it was nearly a forty-minute ride kept them from actually doing this.

Eventually, to the relief of their dates, the music talk finally broke up just as midnight approached. The television was turned on to one of the New Year's Eve specials that had been recorded on the east coast three hours before. Jake settled into the couch in front of the television, Rachel sitting next to him, her legs crossed in a ladylike manner. He put his arm around her. Once again she stiffened a little but eventually snuggled into him.

"I'm sorry for the little interruption," he apologized. "When I heard that harmonica playing I was just struck by inspiration. I've found it best not to disregard such things when they come."

"That's okay," she said, sipping from a glass of white wine. "It was really kind of amazing watching you play that song. I've never seen anything like that before."

"As I said, the composition is one of the best parts of this job."

"I can see why," she said. "And I didn't understand most of what you guys were talking about just now � all that stuff about chords and keys and mixing and distortion levels � but it was pretty cool to listen anyway. It was like watching engineers figure out how to build a bridge, or doctors figuring out how to cure someone."

Jake didn't miss her reference to doctors. "Kind of like what your doctor is doing tonight?" he asked.

She frowned a little. "He's a nerd," she said. "I think I might've broke up with him a long time ago if my mom didn't like him so much. She says he's a very marriageable man."

"Because he's gonna be a doctor?"

"Yeah," she said. "She doesn't see much beyond that."

"And what does she think of me?" Jake asked. "Does she know you're out with me tonight?"

"She knows," Rachel said. "She likes you a lot, Jake. I'm sure you can tell that just from coming into the restaurant. She was a little worried about tonight though. She kept asking me just what our relationship was and what I was going to tell Paul."

"And what did you tell her?"

She smiled. "I told her to mind her own damn business."

On the television screen the clock had reached 11:59 PM. The crowd in Times Square began to count down the seconds. Jake, Rachel, and everyone else in the room dropped whatever they were doing and began to pay attention, waiting for the magic turn of the hour that would mark the new year.

Everyone in the room began to count down the last twenty seconds as the ball began to drop on the screen. When there was only two seconds to go Jake turned to Rachel, who was looking at him expectantly and a little nervously. He leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips were soft and alluring and a chill of lustful infatuation he hadn't felt since Mindy Snow went shooting through him. The kiss broke four seconds after the new year started. The next one started eight seconds after it. This time Jake pushed his tongue forward a little and she opened her mouth a bit, accepting the intrusion. This kiss made it well into midnight+1.

"Wow," Rachel said when it broke, her eyes shining, her face flushed.

"Happy New Year," Jake told her, rubbing his nose against hers.

"A time for new beginnings," she said. "For throwing out the old and letting in the new."

"That's what they say," Jake said. He kissed her again. This time she put her arms around his neck and pulled him close to her.

Pauline left shortly after midnight as she saw that all the couples (and, in the case of Matt, triples) began to come together in earnest. Jake took Rachel out onto the balcony again and they spent the better part of an hour just holding each other and kissing. Several times he put his hand on the back of her thigh, attempting to run it upward beneath her skirt. She pushed his hand away every time, putting it firmly back on her waist.

The party began to break up shortly after two o'clock in the morning. Matt, having already fucked both of his women in a variety of positions and using a variety of non-politically correct maneuvers, sent them home in a limo and went to bed. Nerdly took his woman back to his house with him, explaining the finer points of the limousine and luxury industry all the while. Darren and Coop both took their dates home with them, intending to carry on their festivities there. Jake and Rachel both climbed into the limo with Mario behind the wheel. Jake closed the privacy partition and pulled her against him.

"Would you like to come back to my place?" he asked her, stroking her bare shoulder with one finger.

"I can't," she said. "I'm not quite... ready for that yet. You understand, don't you?"

"Yeah," he said, kissing where his finger had just been caressing. "I understand."

The limo pulled out, heading for Pasadena. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" Rachel asked. "I mean, I know that you're used to women just... you know... doing everything with you whenever you want, but..."

"It's okay," he said. "I'm not mad at all. You have a boyfriend and this was supposed to be a platonic date. I shouldn't have even done what I did."

"No," she said, shaking her head sternly. "Don't say that. I liked kissing you, Jake. I like being with you. The first thing tomorrow I'm calling Paul and telling him it's over between us."

"You are?" Jake asked, not quite sure how he felt about that.

"It doesn't have anything to do with us kissing and... you know... stuff like that," she told him. "Even if you never asked me out again, I'd still do it."

"Why?" he asked.

"Paul is not for me," she said. "He's square, he's boring, and I don't really have any romantic feelings for him. I was dating him because my mother thought I should date a future doctor. Tonight I had fun and I saw how boring the dates I went on with Paul were by comparison. I realized that I was setting myself up for life as a trophy wife, just like my mom did with both of her husbands. I don't want that. I want to have fun."

"Well, I'm glad I could provide some fun for you," he said. "But are you sure you want to just dump the guy? I mean, you've been drinking and smoking weed. Maybe you're not really thinking clearly."

"I'm not really thinking clearly, but that's just now. This is something that's been coming for a while now. Tonight just made me see that my instincts were right. Paul and I are through, no matter what."

Jake nodded. They sat for another minute and then began kissing again. They kissed all the way back to her Pasadena apartment.

When they pulled up outside Jake asked if she wanted him to walk her up.

"I'll be all right," she said. "It's a safe neighborhood."

He kissed her again. "Is the restaurant closed tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"We're gonna be jamming for most of the day tomorrow but maybe after we're done you'd like to go out with me?"

She smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

They kissed again and Jake collected her phone number. She went upstairs and disappeared.

Mario drove him home. For the first time since his early days with Mindy Snow his testicles throbbed with the affliction of blue balls. He wasn't upset about this, however. He was quite pleased. It really was true what they said about respecting women in the morning. Had she gone back to his place and slept with him tonight, Jake would have never talked to Rachel again, would have never visited the restaurant again. Since she had fended him off, however, he now had a date with her.

In Escrow

Los Angeles, California

January 17^th, 1987

11:30 AM

The yellow 1986 Volkswagen Cabriolet wound its way up the narrow two-lane road into the hills below Griffith Park. Rachel Madison, dressed in a pair of designer jeans and a silk blouse from Buffington's on Rodeo Drive, was behind the wheel. Jake Kingsley, wearing a pair of Levis and a long-sleeved pullover shirt, sat in the passenger seat, directing her on where to turn and where to go straight. They were on their way to see the house that Jake was seriously considering buying. Jake's temperamental Corvette was currently in the shop � again � the victim of a broken front-end strut this time. He could have taken a limo up for the second viewing of the residence or he could have gotten Diane Brown � his realtor � to drive him up, but he'd asked Rachel to pick him up instead. It was Saturday, a day they both had off from their normal obligations, and he wanted a woman's perspective on the house.

Since New Year's Even they had been seeing each other fairly regularly, their respective schedules permitting. As promised, she had broken up with her fourth year med student boyfriend, leaving him in shocked tears, she'd told him with a small amount of disgusted amusement. Jake had taken her out every Friday and Saturday night since, escorting her to the Flamingo Club twice, to Flamer's Steakhouse (where Mindy Snow had casually broken up with him once upon a time), and to several shopping excursions to Beverly Hills. Rachel was good company and he enjoyed being with her. She was intelligent, able to hold a decent conversation, had a sense of humor, and was very attractive. She seemed to enjoy his company as well � even when he wasn't spending hundreds of dollars on her.

So far their relationship was in holding pattern as far as physical intimacy went. They held hands when they were together and they kissed quite frequently when they were alone, even going so far as to have heated make-out sessions when the mood seemed right. So far, however, she had fended off each and every one of Jake's attempts to go further. She would push his hand away when he tried to slide it beneath her shirt. She would squirm out from beneath him if he tried to lay her down on a horizontal surface. Her typical explanation was, "I'm not ready for that yet."

Jake remained mostly good-natured about her unwillingness to go to the next level of their relationship. It was actually somewhat of a novelty. Most women he slept with opened their legs to him within minutes, hours at the most. Having to work at the game, feeling the thrill of the chase for once, made him feel almost like a normal American boy chasing a normal American girl.

"Turn here," Jake said. "This is the street."

Rachel turned onto the twisting, tree-lined street. "Nottingham Drive, huh?" she asked, eyeing the widely spaced houses that were set back on both sides of the road. "Sounds very Robin Hood."

"Matt will say it sounds faggy," Jake replied.

"He does have rather strong opinions of that subject," she said.

"Matt has rather strong opinions about almost everything," Jake said. "Slow up a little. It's coming up."

"Which one?" she asked.

"That one." He pointed.

The house in question was bigger than most of the others on the street. It was two stories tall with a large attic area that was big enough to qualify as a third story. It was fifty years old, of classic Spanish Colonial architecture, and surrounded by a lot that was just under an acre in size. A wide, well cared for front lawn stretched from the porch to the street, broken only by a circular driveway and an ornate marble fountain. Sitting off to the right was a four car detached garage.

"Wow," Rachel said. "It's huge."

"Thirty-six hundred square feet," Jake said. He had done his homework on houses in the past month. "That doesn't include the attic, which is another nine hundred square feet. Of all the places I've looked at I like this one the best. It's got the best location, the best view, and the best square footage for what they're asking for it."

"I think I love it already," Rachel said.

She pulled into the circular driveway and parked her car behind the gray Mercedes that belonged to Diane Brown. Diane worked for the same company Jake rented his current condo from. She specialized in Hollywood Hills and Beverly Hills properties and, as such, was accustomed to dealing with rich and/or famous clients. She had a knack for finding out exactly what her clients' needs and/or wants were and matching them up with the properties currently listed. In Jake's case she knew that he loathed driving in traffic and wanted to stay within fifteen miles or so of Hollywood but that a prestigious location was not that important to him. She had steered him away from Beverly Hills, where the money he was willing to spend would have gone more toward a 90210 zip code than the house and lot itself. The same amount in Beverly Hills would have netted him a house and lot half the size of what he was now looking at.

Diane was a smartly dressed, attractive woman in her mid-forties. She stepped out of her car when Rachel parked behind her and met them at the walkway that led up to the front door. Jake introduced the two women to each other and they shook hands.

"So you like this one, huh?" Diane asked. "It's a good value. A beautiful place with lots of amenities and the owners are quite anxious to unload it."

"Of all the houses you've showed me so far, this one has the most of what I'm looking for," Jake told her. "It's reasonably private, it has a big lot, it has a view, and it's close to Hollywood. I just wanted to take one more look at it and have Rachel give it the once-over as well."

"So you're thinking of putting in a bid?" Diane asked hopefully.

"I am doing more than thinking of it," Jake said.

"Well then," she said. "Let's go look it over, shall we?"

She retrieved a key from a lockbox attached to the water pipe and let them in through the double doors. The owners � a cardiac surgeon and his wife � had divorced three months before and were selling the house as part of the settlement. Both of them had long since moved out and taken all of their furnishings with them.

They walked through the interior. The downstairs contained a formal living room, a formal dining room, a regular living room, an entertainment room complete with mahogany wet bar, a huge, fully equipped kitchen, a laundry room, and one of the five bedrooms. All of this level was covered in mahogany hardwood flooring that had been polished to a mirror sheen. The entertainment room looked out to the south, out over the Los Feliz section of Los Angeles, which sat below the hills. A circular staircase led up to the second floor where the other four bedrooms, including the nine hundred square foot master suite, were located. There was also an office that looked out over the back yard. All of these rooms were covered in wall-to-wall thick pile Berber carpeting.

"I think I can live here," Jake said as they finished the house tour.

"It's gorgeous," Rachel beamed, her eyes agog at everything.

"Come out and look at the back yard," he told her. "That's what I like the most."

The back yard was actually a side yard since the back of the house was right up against the edge of the hill looking downward over the view. Jake led her out onto the balcony outside the master suite and over to a redwood staircase that led to the west side of the lot. Immediately at the bottom was an oversized swimming pool and a built-in hot tub surrounded by a large expanse of stamped concrete deck upon which a huge brick barbeque and a covered wet bar had been constructed. Beyond the patio was a third of an acre of Kentucky bluegrass. Privacy hedges formed a perimeter around the entire yard, preventing any of the adjacent properties from viewing what occurred out here.

"I've never seen a house like this before, Jake," Rachel told him. "It's like something out of a fairy tale."

"Yeah, it'll do for a starter home," Jake replied. He turned to Diane. "They want nine hundred grand for this place?"

Rachel let out a little gasp as she heard the price. Diane and Jake both ignored her.

"That is the list price," Diane said. "I am inclined to believe, however, that if you were to offer eight-fifty and a quick escrow they would probably accept."

"Hmm," he said, considering. "I like the house. Why don't you put in that bid for eight-fifty and the quickest possible escrow, all dependent on a satisfactory appraisal, of course."

"Of course," she said. "I'm sure it's no problem for you, Mr. Kingsley, but have you secured financing yet?"

"Not yet," Jake said. "But my accountant and my lawyer both tell me that with my income and my bank balance if I put twenty percent down the banks will be falling all over themselves to write a loan for me."

"I'm sure they speak the truth," Diane said, a smile on her face. She was already tasting the $8500 commission on the sale.

"However," Jake said, a hint of warning in his voice, "there is one thing I should mention."

"What's that?" Diane asked.

"I really hate it when people try to take advantage of me," he said. "I will be having real estate experts and lawyers going over every detail of any agreement. If anyone tries to screw me, even in a small way, I will void this deal immediately and I will never again do business with whomever tried to do the screwing."

"I assure you," Diane said, a little taken aback, "that I only deal on the up and up and I make sure my clients do the same."

"Then we should have no problems," Jake said, smiling. "You start writing up the bid when you get back to your office and let me know how the owners respond. You know how to get hold of me."

Jake led Rachel on a quick tour of the back yard, showing her the rose garden near the back (the bushes were all dormant and clipped down to almost nothing this time of year) and the patio attractions. After, they went back into the house and exited through the front door. They said their goodbyes and nice-to-meet-you's to Diane and walked back over to Rachel's Cabriolet.

"Are you sure you don't want to drive?" she asked, offering him the keys.

"Quite sure," he said, taking them and opening the driver's door for her. "No heterosexual male should ever be seen driving a Cabriolet under any circumstances."

"Where does it say that?" she asked with a giggle as she sat down behind the wheel.

"It doesn't say it anywhere," Jake told her. "It's instinctive heterosexual knowledge, imparted by the Creator from birth."

He came around and sat in the passenger seat of the small car. She started the engine and dropped it into gear, back toward Los Feliz Boulevard.

"Are you really going to buy that house?" she asked him.

"I really think I am," he confirmed.

"And you're going to put down twenty percent? That's like a hundred and seventy thousand dollars."

He shrugged. "I can either put it down on a house or I can give it to the IRS next year."

"That's just amazing," she said, her eyes shining almost hungrily. "That's more money than I've made my entire life."

Jake shrugged again, not wanting to talk about his finances. Such conversations made him uncomfortable. "How about some music?" he asked to change to the subject. He reached for the stereo in the dash. "Do you have a tape in this thing?"

"Uh... well... yes," she said, blushing a little, "but I don't think you'll really like it."

"You'd be surprised what I like," he said, pushing the play button. "Let's hear what you got."

It turned out to be La Diferencia's last album that was stuck in there. The final minute of Lovers In Love � the biggest hit from that album and the song that had been nominated for a Grammy this year � was playing.

"You can change it if you want," Rachel said. "There are some more tapes in the glove box there."

"This is fine," Jake told her. "I didn't know you liked La Diferencia."

"I thought it might bother you if I told you," she said shyly.

"Bother me? Why would you think that?"

"Well... you got in that fight with them that one time at the Grammy awards so I figured you hated them."

"That was Matt's gig," Jake said. "I just got caught in the crossfire. I actually think Celia Valdez has a beautiful voice and is an extraordinary acoustic guitarist. She was a very charming lady as well."

"Really?" Rachel asked. "What was she like?"

"She's tall, almost like an Amazon. She's very pretty and well spoken. She has a good sense of humor and a thick accent. She was able to hold a conversation and even give me back some of the shit I was giving her. She also put Matt quite nicely in his place, something that not many people are able to do."

"Wow," Rachel said. "Sometimes it's just hard for me to believe that I'm really going out with a famous person, you know? And here you are talking about talking to Celia Valdez, one of my favorite singers of all time, and I know you're not making it up. I mean... you've like really done that."

"I've really done that," he confirmed. "It wasn't a big deal. She's just a normal person like I am."

Rachel laughed. "You're not a normal person, Jake," she said. "Normal people don't plop down a hundred and seventy thousand dollars on a house."

"Yeah," Jake said, uncomfortable again. "I suppose."

Lovers In Love faded away and the next track started. It was a song Jake had never heard before as he'd only listened to the La Diferencia tunes that were played on the radio. It caught his attention immediately because it started with a fast, Latin-based acoustic guitar session that was fingerpicked out into a rich, melodious intro. It settled into a rhythm that was half strumming, half fingerpicking as the drums kicked in and set up a slow, military-like backbeat.

"Hey," said Jake, reaching to the volume knob and turning it up a few notches. "This isn't bad. She really can play the guitar."

"I've only heard this song a few times," Rachel said. "I usually listen to the ones they play on the radio and fast forward past this one. It's got a weird name. Something Mexican or something and they never say the title in the song."

The song continued and Celia began to sing, her soft contralto accompanying the instruments and speaking of men marching off to a battle, of muskets and gunpowder, of friends falling and others leaving them where they lie to continue on. It was a riveting piece that was completely unlike any other La Diferencia song he'd heard. He began to wonder about this.

"Do you have the cassette cover in here somewhere?" he asked.

"In the glove box there," she said. "You really like this song?"

"Strange but true," he replied. "It has a depth to it that's missing in most of their other tunes." He opened the glove box and dug around through an untidy collection of loose cassette tapes and empty and full cassette covers. He finally found the La Diferencia cover near the bottom of the pile. He opened it and pulled out the insert, turning it over to where the tracks were listed and credited. He looked at the track listed after Lovers In Love. Carabobo was the name of the tune. Rachel was right. They hadn't said that word a single time in either the verses or the chorus. He looked beneath the title and saw that words and lyrics were credited to Celia Valdez, one of only two tunes on the entire album she had written. The rest were credited to a variety of male names, none of whom were band members.

"Celia Valdez actually wrote this song," Jake said.

"Doesn't she write all of the songs?" Rachel asked. "I heard she was the talent behind the band."

"She is," Jake said, "but they don't write most of their music. It's assigned to them by Aristocrat Records. All of the songs you hear on the radio are written by record company songwriters who specialize in catchy pop music."

"They seem to do a good job, don't they?"

Jake bit back the reply that rose to his lips: To the musically unsophisticated, I'm sure it seems that way. Instead, he said, "Yeah, they're not bad. They certainly sell a lot of singles, but this song here, this Carabobo thing, this is real music. Listen to that guitar work. Listen to the mixing. The vocals are first rate with much more depth then on the pop songs and the lyrics are actually meaningful instead of a sappy, feel-good catch phrases repeated over and over."

Most of this seemed to pass over Rachel's head. "I just like a good song," she said, perhaps a little defensively.

"Me too," Jake said, listening to the ending of Carabobo. It was a strumming slow down of the guitar work and the drums while Celia repeated the final lyrics several times: "So we can be free, so we can be freeeeeeeeee."

"Do you think I can borrow this tape?" Jake asked her when the next song � one of the pop staples from the album � started.

"Uhh... well, sure," she said.

"Do you have the other La Diferencia tapes too?"

She gave him a strange look. "Sure," she said. "They're back there in that case in the back seat."

Jake reached behind him and grabbed the cassette case she had. He opened it and dug around, noting that her musical tastes were indeed a bit simplistic � she seemed to favor country and pop � and that she didn't have a single Intemperance tape in her collection. He found the other two La Diferencia tapes and quickly opened them up and gutted them of their inserts. He opened them up and read over the tracks, seeing that two songs on the first album and one on the second had been penned by Celia Valdez. He wanted to listen to those tunes and see if they were as good as Carabobo had been. Could it be that he'd perhaps underestimated Ms. Valdez's talents a little?

"So... you seem real interested in Celia Valdez," Rachel said.

"I wouldn't exactly say interested," he said. "I'm just surprised that she actually seems to have some musical depth. I didn't even know she composed."

"Have you ever... you know... gone out with her?"

He laughed. "No," he said. "I've never gone out with her. The only time I've ever met her is at the Grammy award party and the awards themselves back in 1985. She's our closest competition in terms of album sales and I'm just curious about what makes her tick. You can tell a lot about a person by what kind of songs they write. My guess is that if Aristocrat ever gave her full artistic license instead of feeding her a bunch of crap songs she'd wipe us right off the chart."

This seemed to make Rachel feel a little better. "She is really good," she said. "I've loved La Diferencia ever since their first album." She blushed a little. "I used to have the biggest crush on Eduardo Valdez. Those Latin features, that accent, and that little goatee he used to have." She shivered. "Mmm, what a hunk."

"If not a particularly great guitar player," Jake said.

"You don't think he's good?" she asked.

"Well, he knows where to put his hands on the instrument," Jake said. "I'll give him that."

"Everybody can't be as good as you and Matt, Jake," she said.

"You do have a point there," he said. "Listen, maybe you'd like to meet them?"

"Meet who?" she asked. "La Diferencia? Can you arrange that?"

"They'll be at the Grammy awards and the pre-Grammy party next month. And it just so happens that I don't have a date for either occasion."

Her mouth dropped open and she looked at him, stunned. "Are you asking what I think you're asking?"

"If you think I'm asking you to the Grammies, then yes, that's what I'm asking."

"Oh... wow, Jake," she said. "Are you serious? You mean go to the Grammies with you and be on TV and everything?"

"I am serious," he said. "And before you answer, you need to think about this a little bit. If you go, you are going to be on TV and the whole world is going to know you're dating me. Your picture is going to show up on tabloids and in the entertainment magazines. Reporters are going to be digging into your life, trying to find out everything there is to know about you so they can print it. If there's anything unflattering about your life, they'll probably find it and print that too. There will be paparazzi hanging out in front of your restaurant and snapping pictures of you. You will no longer be anonymous."

"Wow," she said again, overwhelmed.

"I won't be mad if you say no," he told her. "I'll understand completely. Being famous is not all it's cracked up to be."

"No no," she said, shaking her head strenuously. "I want to go. I'd love to go. Oh my God! What would I wear though? I mean, I know how to dress up and everything but I don't have anything for the Grammies." She screamed a little. "Oh my god! The Grammies."

"As I said," Jake told her, "think it over a little bit. I don't need an answer right away. And don't worry about what to wear. If you go, the various dressmakers of Hollywood will be falling all over themselves to be the one to outfit you for both the party and the ceremony. They'll give you whatever dress you want just so it can be seen on TV."

"They'll give me the dress?" she asked, astounded. "You mean for free?"

"If you were a celebrity of some sort they'd actually pay you to wear it," he assured her. "Don't worry about wardrobe."

"Yes, Jake," she said. "I'd love to go." She shook her head. "Oh my God. I can't believe this. Wait until Maureen hears about this. She is gonna be soooo jealous!"

She chattered on and on for the rest of the drive, asking him a thousand questions, making a thousand spontaneous statements, her mood going from elation to nervousness and then back to elation again. When they pulled up in front of Jake's building he invited her up for lunch. She accepted.

"I need a beer," Jake said as soon as they entered the condo. "Do you want anything?"

"Just a diet soda if you have one," she said. "You're really serious about this Grammy thing, right? You're not just fucking with me?"

"I'm not just fucking with you," he assured her, taking a bottle of beer and a can of Diet Coke out of the bar refrigerator. "How does turkey sandwiches sound for lunch? I just happen to have all the ingredients in the kitchen."

"It sounds good," she said absently. "Can I call Mom? I really need to tell her about this."

He handed her the can of soda. "Call away," he told her. "I'll be in the kitchen. Turn on the TV or the music if you want."

He went into the kitchen, leaving her to make her phone call. He cracked his beer open and had a large drink and then began to remove the roast turkey he'd cooked two nights ago from the refrigerator. He prepared immaculate sandwiches on sourdough rolls, garnished them with chips from the pantry, and then carried the whole works into the dining room. By this point Rachel was off the phone and Jake was on his second beer.

"Mom is so excited about this," Rachel said. "Can she be with me through the dress fitting thing? I'd love to have her there."

"I don't see why not," Jake said.

They ate their lunch and then retired to the couch in the entertainment room to watch a movie on the VCR. It wasn't long before they were in each other's arms, engaged in a heated make-out session.

This time when Jake put his hand beneath her shirt, she didn't stop him. Encouraged, he slowly unbuttoned her four hundred dollar blouse and popped the snap on her matching front-loader bra. The perky breasts that he'd admired for so long beneath her Brannigan's T-shirts at the restaurant were now visible to him in all their majestic glory. They really were worth the wait, he concluded as he gazed upon them for the first time. Nice, well-rounded C-cups capped with pink nipples that were sticking out excitedly. He cupped one and then the other with his hands, caressing them, feeling them, and then he slowly lowered his head and took the left nipple into his mouth.

"Ohh, yessss, Jake," she moaned as she slurped and sucked at her.

He tried to ease her back onto the couch so he could start working on her pants but she resisted. He gave a little grunt of frustration � a good natured grunt he thought, after all, this was part of the thrill of the chase � but she seemed to think he was mad at her.

"I'm sorry, Jake," she said. "I'm just not ready to... you know... go all the way yet. I'm not trying to tease you or anything."

"It's okay," Jake said, his hands going back to her breasts. "I'll just find something else to occupy my time." He lowered his head again, preparing to take the nipple back into his mouth. Once again she stopped him.

"I'm sorry I leave you so... frustrated all the time," she said, her hand rubbing up and down his back. "Maybe there's something else I could do to help you out."

"Something else?" he asked, twirling her nipple between his thumb and index finger.

"You know... maybe I could... uh... put it in my mouth?"

Jake certainly had no problem with this plan of action. "Sure," he said. "I think I'd like that."

She nodded and glanced nervously down at his crotch, which was bulging out quite suggestively. With shaking hands she reached down and undid the buttons on his jeans. He raised his hips up so she could pull them down, revealing his turgid erection to her. She took it in her hand and stroked it up and down a few times, staring at it all the while as if she'd never seen one before. Finally she lowered her head and took him in her mouth.

It became obvious as she went to work on him that she had no idea how to give a blowjob. She swirled her tongue around the head a few times, sucked a little, but kept her hands out of the action and developed no sort of up and down motion that would produce an orgasm. Jake let her do her thing for two or three minutes until his erection actually started to wilt due to lack of stimulation. He then reached down and gently pulled her head up.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Didn't you like it?"

"Uh... well... yeah, I did."

"Then why did you stop me? It's okay if you... you know... come in my mouth." She said this last with an air of fear � the fear of the great unknown.

"Rachel," he said gently, "have you ever done this before?"

Her lip quivered a little. "Is it that obvious?" she asked, seemingly near tears now. "I mean I've had sex and everything, but I've never, you know... done that before."

"There's nothing wrong with that," he said. "I don't want you to do anything you don't really want to do."

"I do want to do it," she said. "I really do. I want to make you feel good, Jake."

Then let me into your puss where it doesn't matter if you know how to do it or not, he did not say. That was the Matt in him coming forth. In truth, he was actually excited at the thought that she had never had a penis in her mouth before � more excited than when one of the nameless sluts he usually slept with performed an expert blowjob on him. "Look," he said. "If you really want to do this, then how about I tell you how to do it right, okay?"

She nodded, looking down at his penis, which had sprung back to its full glory. "Okay," she said.

He directed her through the basic process, teaching her to move her mouth up and down, to use her hands on the base and jack at the same rate her mouth was moving. He directed her on the proper speed to use � a pace that mimicked copulation just prior to orgasm. It was far from the best oral sex he'd ever had but it was very pleasurable all the same because it was Rachel doing it, a woman he actually knew something about, who's company he actually enjoyed. This, coupled with the fact that he'd had no sexual release other than masturbation since he'd started dating her, led to a quick conclusion to the encounter.

"Yes, oh yeah," Jake said as the final moment approached. "Just like that. Don't stop. Almost... there..."

She increased her pace a little, keeping up the friction and the feeling of blissful release shot up and down Jake's body. He exploded into her sucking mouth, letting loose a torrent of pent-up semen. She dutifully kept up the action throughout the orgasmic period although a considerable amount of his offering dribbled out of her mouth and onto his upper thigh.

Slowly she raised her head up and looked at him. The expression on her face was not of delight, nor was it of satisfaction of a job well done. It was of barely controlled disgust. Her color was more than a little on the green side.

"Are you okay?" he asked her as he watched her breathing heavily through her mouth.

"Uh... uh... I'll be back," she said, scrambling to her feet. She made a mad dash for the nearest bathroom, diving into it and slamming the door behind her. A moment later Jake heard the sound of retching.

"Well," he said, standing up and pulling his jeans back up. "That went well."

As the retching went on and on the phone began to ring. He walked over to it and picked it up. "Yeah?" he said into the mouthpiece.

"And hello to you too," said Pauline's voice. "Are you busy?"

A particularly loud retch came drifting out of the bathroom. "No, not really," he said. "What's up?"

"You got trouble," she said.

"What kind of trouble?" he asked.

"I've been getting calls all morning from entertainment reporters wanting comment on an article about you that appeared today in February's issue of Catholic Monthly magazine"

"Is that the porno mag with all the chicks in schoolgirl skirts in it?"

"No," she said. "It's not the porno mag with all the chicks in schoolgirl skirts in it, it's the primary publication of the Catholic Church in the United States and they have a very unflattering article about Jake Kingsley, lead singer of Intemperance in it. I went and picked up a copy an hour ago to see what all the fuss was about and it's very bad."

"How bad can it be?" he asked. "Every freakin' religious group in the world hates everything we stand for. They've all done stories about our satanic music and the coke-sniffing from the butt crack thing."

"This one is different," Pauline said. "This article was written by your ex-girlfriend."

"My ex-girlfriend?" he asked. "Which fuckin' ex-girlfriend? I've had a few."

"Your first ex-girlfriend," she said. "Michelle Rourke, formerly known as Michelle Borrows. The girl you used to date in Heritage while you were playing at D Street West."

"Ahhh," he said, "that ex-girlfriend." That had been almost seven years ago, long before anyone had ever heard of Intemperance. He had met her in community college where he'd been taking some music courses and working on general education requirements for his still unattained college degree. She had been an English major, her goal to one day be a teacher at the Catholic School where she herself had been educated. They had dated for over a year and she was Jake's first true love. Eventually, however, as Intemperance became more popular to the Heritage area rock music fans and as her own Catholic upbringing had finally conquered her will to go on dating a scrungy musician, she had broken up with him. He had never heard from her since and had only seen her one time since. That had been on a television newscast showing religious protesters picketing an Intemperance concert in Heritage. She had been hanging out with a group called The Family Values Coalition of Heritage and carrying a sign that said INTEMPERANCE IS SATAN'S TOOL!

"That ex-girlfriend," Pauline confirmed. "Jake, she makes some pretty inflammatory accusations in the article."

"Like what?"

"I think maybe you should come over here and read it for yourself," she said. "Once you do that we can start talking about what our response is going to be."

"That bad, huh?"

"That bad," she confirmed.

"Okay, I'll be over as soon as I can get there."

He hung up the phone, wondering how what had been a pretty good day had turned so shitty in such a hurry. First his girlfriend starts puking after giving him a blowjob and now Michelle Borrows, the girl he'd written the hit song Point Of Futility about, resurfaces in his life after six years accusing him of God-knew-what.

Rachel emerged from the bathroom a minute later, still looking kind of ill. Her face was pale and her expression was of embarrassed unhappiness. "Jake, I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what happened. I know how this must look to you, but..."

"It's okay," he told her, lighting a cigarette and taking a few deep drags. "That kind of thing happens all the time, I'm sure."

"It does?"

Actually Jake had never heard of such a thing happening before, but now was the time for diplomacy. "Sure," he said. "It's nothing to worry about. Listen, can you give me a lift over to my sister's house? Apparently there's some trouble brewing with a Catholic magazine that printed an article from an ex-girlfriend of mine."

"Trouble?" she asked. "What kind of trouble?"

"I don't know yet," he said. "I haven't read the article."

"Is it Mindy Snow?" she asked.

"No, much further back than that. A girl I used to date when I was in college and playing the clubs. Pauline wants me over there as soon as I can get there."

"Uh... well... sure," she said. "How will you get home?"

"I'll catch a limo or have Pauline take me." He walked over to her and kissed her on the cheek. "Don't worry about what happened, okay?"

"Okay," she said, sniffing a little. "I'm just so embarrassed."

"Don't be," he said. "And while I'm talking to Pauline I'll let her know to start contacting the dressmakers so we can get you outfitted for the Grammies, okay?"

"Okay," she said, the smile coming back to her face as she thought about it.

The title of the article was: A WRETCH LIKE ME, my experience as Jake Kingsley's girlfriend.

"A wretch like her, huh?" Jake said, looking at her picture above the article. She was still pretty, the six years that had passed having been kind to her. Her blonde hair was tied into a conservative bun and fashionable glasses were perched upon her face. The caption below her picture read: Michelle Rourke is a lifelong member of The Church who was educated at California State University at Heritage and who currently teaches English at Holy Assumption school in Heritage. She is a founding member of the Heritage branch of the Family Values Coalition and, as revealed in the article, dated Jake Kingsley, lead singer of the death metal band Intemperance, for more than a year from 1980 to 1981.

"A wretch like her," Pauline confirmed. "Why don't you read through that while I get you a drink? I think you're going to need it in a few minutes."

She left the office, heading for the kitchen. Jake took one last look at Michelle's picture and then started to read.

I was born and raised Catholic and I adhere strictly to the teachings of The Church. I was married in St. John's Cathedral right here in Heritage, California and I attend services there every Sunday. I teach at the oldest Catholic school in the Heritage region and I am well respected by my students, my peers, and my administrators. I am the eternal good little Catholic girl through and through but I've harbored a deep, shameful secret from my early college days. Only my closest friends, my priest, and now, as of two weeks before, my husband, knows this secret. I used to date Jake Kingsley.

This relationship started in June of 1980 when I was working on general education requirements at Heritage Community College. I was twenty years old and in the midst of a crisis in faith that is so common to younger members of The Church. I wanted to rebel against the lifestyle and the sacred rules I had been raised with. Jake Kingsley, who was then a struggling musician who attended Heritage Community College, seemed the perfect outlet for this rebellion. He asked me out one day and I accepted. Thus began the fifteen-month nightmare that scarred me deeply but that ultimately served to reaffirm my faith.

"The fifteen month nightmare?" Jake muttered. "Jesus Christ."

He read on. According to Michelle, their first date was to a rock and roll club in which he'd forced her to smoke marijuana and snort cocaine and had asked for oral sex at the completion of the date. When she'd balked at his demands he had become angry with her and took her home immediately, telling her to never talk to him again. Something inside of her, however, had been attracted to the "bad boy" persona he represented and when he asked her out a second time she'd agreed to go even though he pointedly told her what the price of dating him would be.

I did it that night with him, sinning in a way that even men and women married in the eyes of Our Lord in holy matrimony are forbidden. And to my great shame, my great consternation, some sick and twisted part of me actually enjoyed the encounter. I went out with him again and again. I smoked more marijuana with him and I drank more alcohol and I snorted more cocaine and I fell deeper and deeper into wretchedness so far removed from my upbringing that I feared I might never come back.

Soon, very soon, I gave up my holy virginity to him. Actually, I didn't really give it to him, he took it from me, plying me with enough drugs and alcohol that my resistance was reduced to nearly nothing. He then ripped my clothes off and violated me in the back seat of his car. That was the first time he hit me. I asked him to please be gentle and he laughed, backhanding me sharply across the face and calling me a name that is usually associated with female dogs.

"You fuckin' lying bitch!" Jake screamed out to the empty office. He was outraged beyond belief. He had been with well over four hundred women at this point in his life, including seven or eight serious relationships and never, not a single time, had he ever hit one of these women or abused any of them in any way. What Michelle was saying was an outright lie. Although Mindy Snow had implied that Jake had been abusive to her she had not actually come out and said he'd hit her. This was the most libelous fabrication he'd ever read.

Things did not get better in the rest of the article, they only got worse. Michelle described a relationship from hell in which Jake regularly beat her, degraded her, even had sex with other women in front of her. She described orgies of drug use that had never occurred. She described bull sessions in which Jake and the rest of his horrid band had sat around and expounded upon the virtues of Satanism and Hitlerism while degrading anything that had to do with organized Christianity.

I could not seem to break free from this relationship, no matter how much I wished to return to my old life. I've been to counseling since and I've heard the tales of a thousand battered women in abusive relationships and my experience is quite typical of these encounters. I was constantly threatened with death and dismemberment if I left him. I was told that my parents, my church would never accept me because of what I'd done. He threatened to expose every sordid detail of our lives if I displeased him in any way. And I believed him as only a twenty-year-old girl experiencing the harsh realities of the modern world could believe him.

Eventually I got to the point where I was seriously considering the most mortal of sins � that of suicide. It seemed, at times, that this was the only way out of the hell I found myself in. I could no longer feel Jesus in my life and it was my belief that He had abandoned me, that He was so disgusted with what I had become and with who I was with that even His everlasting love could not extend to a wretch like me.

But He had not abandoned me. Our Holy Father abandons no one, not even wretches who consort with henchmen of the Devil like Jake Kingsley. Interestingly, it was not an attack upon me that finally convinced me to pull myself from this horrid relationship, but an attack upon the Holy Scriptures. Jake dragged me to another one of his awful productions one night and sang a new song that I'd never heard before, a song that was a condemnation of the bible and all it stands for. It was an attack so vile upon the very book that forms the foundation of our faith that I knew at that point I could no longer continue to be with him. I felt Jesus talk to me that night, felt Him in my heart as he told me it was time to come back to Him and leave my wretchedness behind.

Michelle then went on to describe how, upon hearing that she was breaking up with him, Jake had beaten her to within an inch of her life, raped her one last time, and then threw her in the Sacramento River from the back of the boat owned by the evil proprietor of the Devil's music club they'd been playing at. Somehow she managed to survive all of this and accepted Jesus back into her heart, eventually going on to finish her degree, get her teaching credential, and, when Intemperance became popular, to help found the Family Values Coalition of Heritage in order to fight everything that Jake Kingsley and those like him stood for.

By the time he finished reading Pauline had come back into the room. She held a potent rum and coke in her hands. Jake took it from her and downed half of it in one drink.

"Pretty bad, huh?" she asked, sitting down across from him.

He nodded numbly. "This is the most slanderous thing I've ever read before," he said. "I beat her, raped her, and threw her in the river? What kind of shit is that? She broke up with me after I got done eating her pussy out and she didn't even return the favor. And she wasn't fleeing from the relationship, she told me she loved me and gave me an ultimatum. Her or my music. I chose my music and she left."

"I didn't think any of that was true, Jake," she said. "I know you as well as anyone and I know you'd never hit a woman in anger, much less regularly beat and rape one. And I remember when you were dating this bitch. She was madly in love with you. It was obvious to everyone who saw you together."

"But everyone else who reads this is going to think its true," he said. "The media is going to be all over this for the next month at least. And it'll be like the coke in the butt crack thing. They're never going to forget about it. Every article they ever write about me from now until forever is going to describe me as the musician who was alleged to have snorted cocaine from a girl's buttocks and who was is known to have violent and sadistic tendencies with his girlfriends. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if Rachel stopped seeing me when she gets a look at this thing."

"I know," Pauline said. "I wish I had some encouraging words for you but I really don't."

"What about suing for libel?" Jake asked. "Can we do that? Force this fucking rag to print a retraction?"

"We could sue them," she said, "but I don't think we'd have much chance of winning. In a libel suit the burden of proof is on the accuser. That means you'd have to prove by a preponderance of the evidence that her allegations are not true in order to win. That's a pretty tough haul when all she is talking about are one on one encounters from six years ago."

"Fucking bitch," Jake said again. "I wish I would've beaten her ass now."

"Don't ever say anything like that to anyone but me," Pauline warned. "I think our response to this needs to be a statement from me that you emphatically deny ever laying a hand on Michelle that was not welcome. You deny raping her, you deny hitting her, you deny everything."

"Of course I'm going to deny everything," Jake yelled at her. "I didn't do any of it!"

"I know that," she said. "I'm just telling you what our official response should be."

"Maybe we should tell the tale about how she let me eat her pussy out and then broke up with me without so much as a hand job in return," Jake suggested. "That'll let people know what kind of bitch she is."

Pauline licked her lips carefully. "Uh... bad idea," she said. "I think we should just stick to the denials and go no further. Don't say a word about Michelle to anyone. Just pretend she doesn't exist and with any luck maybe they'll let the subject drop soon."

"Can I at least tell them about how she screamed out Jesus' name the first time I made her come?"

"Impressive," Pauline said, "but no. Not a word about anything. We'll acknowledge that you dated her, that you eventually broke up with her, and we deny everything else."

Jake nodded. "All right. We deny everything and keep our mouths shut."

Jake talked to Rachel on the phone that night. By this point the story of the allegations put down by Michelle Rourke (formerly Borrows) were the top news story on every entertainment show and had even been mentioned on a few of the local news shows themselves. There was no way she could have avoided hearing what her boyfriend was being accused of.

"Everything she wrote is pretty much a fabrication," Jake told her. "We actually had a solid, loving relationship up until the last two months or so. That's when her upbringing started to make her question her relationship with me. I never laid a hand on her in anger. I've never done that to any woman."

"I believe you, Jake," she said. "Remember, I've been dating you for almost a month now. You've never even yelled at me."

"I was just worried you might believe what she was writing," Jake said.

"I don't," she assured him. "Did you talk to your sister about those dressmakers? Mom is real excited about helping me pick one out."

"Yes, I did," Jake said. "She said she'll call and make the arrangements for you on Monday morning... if you still want to go."

"Why wouldn't I want to go?" she asked.

"Well, with this whole article thing and the media attention it's getting, the reporters are going to be much more interested in you now. If you show up as my official date they're going to be hounding you, asking you if I beat you, if I make you do drugs, if I rape you. Are you sure you want to subject yourself to all that?"

"Reporters don't bother me, Jake," she said. "When they ask I'll tell them that you're the most loving, considerate boyfriend I've ever had."

"Okay," he said, "but don't lay it on too thick or they'll think you're just protecting me."

"I won't," she promised. "And, Jake... about what happened today. I just want to tell you again how sorry I am about... you know... throwing up after you... you... you know?"

"I know," he said. "And like I told you this afternoon, don't sweat it. Things happen. If you don't like doing that, you don't have to do it again."

"I did like doing it, it's just that at the end... when you... you... uh... squirted that stuff in my mouth, I just wasn't prepared for..."

"Rachel, hon," he said. "Don't worry about it, okay? It's already forgotten."

Michelle Rourke became a media sensation over the next week. Her article was reprinted in several mainstream publications and she herself was the most-requested guest on the talk show circuit. She appeared on several of these shows, telling her tale in television acceptable language, always seeming to be the shy, nervous, unassuming little Catholic girl with a horrific story to convey. She always managed to get a dig in about the evils of rock and roll music and how the recent rating system imposed by the PMRC did not go nearly far enough.

"Music such as that produced by Jake Kingsley and Intemperance is nothing but evil personified," she told an NBC talk show early in the week. "It is horribly corrupting upon the youth of America and it should be banned from sale like the pornography that it is."

Pauline released Jake's official statement to the media at a brief press conference held outside the National Records Building. Jake Kingsley denies ever hitting a woman, ever raping a woman, and ever abusing a woman in any way. He acknowledged that a relationship had indeed taken place between himself and Michelle Borrows (now Rourke), and that it lasted approximately fifteen months, but that everything else about the article was a complete falsehood. It was obvious that very few people believed his denials.

Reporters mobbed him on Wednesday afternoon when he arrived at the National Records building for a meeting called by Steve Crow. They shoved microphones in his face, snapped pictures of him, and demanded over and over that he tell them how many times he'd hit her, if he had ever tried to contact after throwing her in the river, if his high-priced lawyers were the reason he was never arrested for the offense.

"No comment," he said, over and over as he linebacked his way through the crowd and into the building.

By the time he made it into Crow's office on the twelfth floor he was fuming and wishing for a drink. He glared at Crow as he walked in, his eyes shooting daggers at the A&R rep.

"Are you okay, Jake?" Crow asked, a bit nervously.

"How in the hell did those reporters know I was going to be showing up for a meeting here today?" he asked. "Did you tell them?"

Crow managed to do a credible job of looking surprised. "Reporters?" he asked. "Are there reporters downstairs? I have no idea who might've told them."

"Yeah right," Jake said, knowing that arguing the point with Crow would be a waste of time. "You got any beer in this place?"

"Uh... sure," said Crow, who knew that Jake, as well as the rest of the band, typically eschewed any form of intoxicating substances when they were in a meeting with the record company. He rang his secretary and told her to bring a Corona with a lime for Mr. Kingsley.

Jake drank it down while Matt, Bill, and Pauline came into the office one by one. All of them eyed the bottle in Jake's hand but said nothing. All of them had been subjected to reporter mobbing when they'd arrived as well. Crow offered the rest of them drinks and cocaine. All turned him down. Jake declined the offer of a second beer. That would have to wait for the limo drive back to his house.

"So what the fuck, Steve?" Matt asked when the meeting was called to order. "You made us burn a jam session so we could come meet with you. What's got your cock ring on so tight this time?"

Crow blinked a little. He was still not quite used to Matt's unique method of terming things. "Actually," he said, "I brought you here to share some good news with you. I've talked to Mr. Doolittle at length over the past few days and we've finally decided to grant one of the song requests you've been pushing so hard for ever since your first album."

"Oh?" said Jake. "And what might that be?"

"We want you to record It's In The Book for the next album. In fact, we strongly recommend that you make that particular tune the title cut of the album."

The three musicians and their manager all shared a knowing look with each other. It's In The Book, written by Jake back in the D Street West days, was a song that National had consistently vetoed and refused to accept as an Intemperance song on the grounds that it was too controversial since the subject matter was the negative passages in the bible. It was also the song that Michelle Rourke alluded to in her article � the one that finally gave her the courage to break up with Jake and bring Jesus back into her heart. Though there was no way Crow could know for sure that It's In The Book was, in fact, the song she mentioned � she hadn't named it after all � it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. Michelle had mentioned an anti-biblical piece and It's In The Book was an anti-biblical piece � one of the few tunes in which the record company had actually guessed correctly about the meaning of the lyrics.

"Wow," Jake said, lighting a cigarette and dropping the match into Crow's pencil holder. "And what made you decide, just now, to finally allow us to record this song?"

"Yeah," said Matt. "I'm sure it has nothing to do with that article penned by that bible thumper bitch."

"Look, guys," Crow said. "I'm not gonna blow smoke up your ass. Now that that article is out in print people will want to hear the song that finally made the little Catholic girl go back to Jesus. If we put it on the next album, use it as the title cut, and, most importantly, don't release it as a single, the album will sell like mad. It will probably go platinum in the first week."

"Uh huh," Jake said. "And how will people know that It's In The Book is the song Michelle was talking about?"

"We'll let it slip to the media about a month in advance of the album release," Crow said.

"No," Jake said. "Absolutely not. Maybe it's time that song was allowed to find it's way into the garbage bin. We've matured since then. We have a lot of better tunes developing now."

"Jake," Crow said, "let's be reasonable here. Didn't you always say that It's In The Book was one of the best tunes you ever wrote? You said that when we were putting together Balance and that was only a year ago."

"Look, Crow," Matt said. "I think it's a rockin' ass tune too. It was always one of my favorites that Jake did, but we don't want you using it as nothing but exploitation to sell albums. You go telling everyone that the tune is the one that convinced the bible-thumper bitch to break up with Jake no one will give a faggot's rimjob about what the true meaning of the song is."

"Who gives a shit what the true meaning of the song is?" Crow nearly screamed. "If you do what I say your next album will go platinum in a week! A week! Don't you understand what that means? Don't you realize what kind of royalty checks you would be looking at in the quarter that followed the release?"

"Our next album will go platinum no matter what," Jake said. "We don't do this for the shock value, as much as you like to think that we do. We do it because it's our music and we're proud of it. The money is nice, don't get me wrong on that, but we're not willing to sacrifice our integrity for money like you are."

"Try it once," Crow fumed. "You might like it."

The meeting was effectively over at this point. Under the old contract Crow and National Records could have forced Jake and Matt and the others to record It's In The Book because it was material that had been submitted on a demo to them and therefore their property. Although the song was still National's property the current contract gave the band (and the record company) veto power over any tune. There was no way Crow could compel them to record any song they did not wish to.

Los Angeles, California

February 18, 1987

7:30 PM

"Shall we commence with our pre-Grammy award party tradition?" Matt asked, breaking out two fat joints as the limousine pulled away from his Malibu beach house.

"Fuckin' A," Coop said, whipping out a Zippo lighter with the Intemperance logo stenciled upon it. "Let's burn them bad boys."

Janice Boxer, their publicity manager, and Steve Crow both rolled their eyes upward and shook their heads. It seemed that the band had not matured much since their last trip to the prestigious Hollywood party.

"Jake," Janice said, trying to appeal to his sense of decorum. "Do you really think that smoking weed on the way to the party is a good idea? Think of the impression your young lady friend will be making if she comes out reeking of cannabis."

"It's okay," Rachel said quietly, fussing with the hem of her skirt. "I don't mind."

Janice gave her an ugly look but let the subject lie. Coop and Matt each fired up a joint and began to pass them in opposite directions.

Jake took a large hit when the first one came his way and then patted Rachel on the leg. "You don't have to smoke any," he told her. "It can make you real uncomfortable in social situations if you're not used to it."

"No, it's okay," she said, plucking the joint from his fingers. "I've kinda gotten to like it."

"Well all right then," Jake said as she took a medium sized hit and held it in.

Rachel was looking particularly lovely on this night. After more than a week of sampling different dresses from more than two dozen dressmakers she had finally selected a maroon, sequined formal dress designed by Gianni Versace for the pre-Grammy party and a red strapless dress designed by Sergio Valenti for the awards ceremony itself. The Versace was backless and sleeveless, displaying an ample amount of her impressive cleavage � a cleavage made more alluring by the custom-designed push-up bra she wore beneath it. Her hair and make-up had been expertly applied by none other than Deloris Riolo � the band's hairdresser � who had been ecstatic to have an actual girl to work on for once instead of a scrungy musician.

The word that Jake was dating Rachel had already been leaked out to the media � probably by the Grammy committee, who had issued her invitation, or perhaps by an employee of one of the dressmaker companies. Reporters, once armed with Rachel's name and age, had quickly ferreted her address, telephone number, and employer out of whatever sources they maintained and had been hounding her ever since. They gathered in groups before her apartment, snapping pictures of her and shouting questions whenever she appeared. They showed up at Brannigan's, coming inside and demanding to know how she had met Jake, how long they had been dating, and, of course, how many times he had beaten and raped her. They had been up at the UCLA campus, interviewing her fellow students, her professors, the cafeteria workers, wanting to know if she ever showed up with mysterious bruises upon her, with black eyes, with broken bones. Did she ever start crying for no particular reason?

Rachel, understandably overwhelmed by all the attention, had been somewhat of a nervous wreck the past two weeks. The only statement she'd issued to them had been in the first days of the harassment when she'd proclaimed that, yes, she was dating Jake Kingsley, and that no, he had never beaten her or raped her. Her standard response since then had been the phrase that Jake and Pauline had drilled into her: No comment.

This did not stop them from tracking down Jo Ann, Rachel's mother, and Maureen, Rachel's roommate. To Jo Ann they asked how she could condone her only daughter going out with a perverted, violent, and satanic rock musician who had once snorted cocaine out of a girl's butt crack and thrown another girl into the Sacramento River for breaking up with him.

"I have seen no evidence that Jake is even remotely like the person you are describing," Jo Ann had stated for the record. "He has shown her nothing but kindness and has treated her like the lady she was raised to be for as long as I'm known him."

To Maureen, they asked if Rachel had ever come home bleeding or crying or if she'd ever had to take her to the hospital after one of her dates with Jake.

"She usually seems pretty happy when she comes home from a date with him," Maureen had responded. "In fact, I've never seen her as giddy before."

"So sometimes she doesn't come home happy?" one of the reporters asked. "Can you elaborate on those times?"

The intrusions did not end with harassing his girlfriend and her family and friends. On February 3 Jake put down $175,000 on his new house and entered a thirty-day escrow. The very next day there were articles in all the Los Angeles newspapers describing the house Jake was buying, including pictures of it. They published the address, how much he was paying for it, and his close of escrow date.

"How in the hell did they get all this information so fast?" Jake asked Pauline when the reporters began calling her later that day, asking for a statement in regards to some of the reactions Jake's future neighbors were having to the news.

"It's all public record," Pauline replied. "In a place like Los Angeles County I'm sure that every records clerk who works in real estate transactions, marriage licensing, death certificates, and a few other departments have arrangements to get little envelopes full of money from reporters whenever something interesting � like Jake Kingsley buying a house � comes drifting through their files."

The reaction of those future neighbors was quite similar to what it had been back in 1969 when the first black family purchased a house in the neighborhood. Neighbors began picketing out in front of the house, carrying signs that read things like: THIS IS A FAMILY NEIGHBORHOOD or DEATH METAL HAS NO PLACE IN MY BACKYARD or NO SATANIC RAPISTS HERE! The actual homeowner's association itself used the law firm they had on retainer to file for an injunction forbidding Jake from closing escrow on the house or to at least extend the escrow period while the legalities of the situation were worked out. The very shaky grounds for this were an obscure section of the CC&R for the neighborhood, which proclaimed that no house could be sold to a sexual deviant or someone with a felonious criminal record.

"It doesn't have a hope in hell of succeeding," Jake's father and sister both assured him. "That section of the CC&R are part of the leftovers from the forties when the neighborhood was first built. It's the part Congress struck down in the Fair Housing Act of 1968, the part they used to use to keep out blacks and Asians and Jews."

The homeowner's association, knowing that their legal argument would most likely fail, simultaneously tried a different tactic, this time without the advise of their attorney. They contacted the bank that was financing Jake's loan and threatened to organize a boycott against them unless they refused funding. They contacted the cardiac surgeon who was selling the house and threatened him with a similar boycott unless he pulled out of the deal. Before either of these entities had a chance to respond to these threats Pauline issued one of her own on her brother's behalf. She sent a letter to the bank and the surgeon explaining that if they were to withhold funding or try to pull out of the deal without just cause now that it was in escrow they would be guilty of violations of the Fair Housing Act. In the case of the bank they would be subjected to stiff financial penalties. In the case of the doctor, he would subject to monetary fines and potential criminal charges under federal law. She sent another letter to the homeowner's association itself informing them that their threats of boycotts to lending institutions and homeowners in order to foment discrimination against a home buyer constituted the most grave violations of the Fair Housing Act and that every signatory whose name appeared on their letter was subject to immediate arrest and trial under federal law if Mr. Kingsley, the bank, or the cardiac surgeon decided to press charges. When a quick consultation with their attorney informed them that Ms. Kingsley, attorney-at-law, was entirely correct in her assessment of their actions, they immediately dropped plans for a boycott and simply continued picketing and waiting for the official court decision on the matter.

And now Jake and Rachel were about to go right into the teeth of the lion. Hundreds of entertainment reporters would be present at the party they were attending and Jake had been forced to warn Rachel that they would try anything, do anything to elicit some kind of damning statement from her, up to an including sending an undercover reporter to befriend her and get her talking while her lips were loosened with alcohol.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked her as they pulled onto the Hollywood strip and headed for the Hollywood Hilton Hotel.

She was quite stoned, a goofy smile showing on her face. "Oh yes," she said. "Bring 'em on."

"That's the fuckin' spirit," Matt said, popping one of the roaches into his mouth and swallowing it. "If you have to say anything tell them how good Jake munches out your bearded clam. They'll be in awe of his skills and they won't be able to print it because it's too graphic."

Rachel, not realizing that Matt was entirely serious, burst out laughing at his advice. "You are one of a kind, Matt," she said. "Anyone ever told you that?"

"No," he said, downing the last of his Jack Daniels and Coke. "I've never heard that before."

They pulled up in front of the hotel and the driver opened the door for them. Once again they exited the limo in a billowing cloud of marijuana smoke and entered the building reeking of it. The reporters outside shouted questions at them, most having to do with the Michelle Rourke accusations. Jake did not even acknowledge their existence.

He could not avoid them inside the party however. It was less than ten minutes after their arrival, as they were still sipping on their first drink, that Allison Stone, a reporter for the Los Angeles Times entertainment department, intercepted them as they were making their way across the room.

"Jake, Ms. Madison, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"As long as your questions don't have anything to do with Michelle Rourke or her article," Jake replied.

Her face contorted a bit but she quickly got it under control. "I guess I can live with that," she said. She held her hand out to Rachel and introduced herself.

"I read your article all the time," Rachel told her. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Well thank you," she said. "If it's okay with you two, I'd just like to get some clarification on the details of your relationship."

"The details?" Rachel said, paling a bit as she imagined having to explain her blowjob experience.

"Uh... she means how we met and how long we've been going out and all that," Jake said.

"Oh... of course," Rachel responded. "I can do that."

They started with a brief biography of Rachel's life, mostly confirming information that was already out there � the spelling of her name, her date of birth, where she went to school, her major, where she worked. From there they went into the details of meeting Jake for the first time and the development of their romantic relationship from there. Rachel answered the questions as honestly and completely as she could, her answers well spoken and articulate. She told Allison that she had been attracted to Jake from the beginning but that he hadn't asked her out until after she'd broken things off with her previous boyfriend.

"So this all must seem kind of Cinderella-like to you," Allison said. "A normal, every day college student who suddenly find herself dating a famous musician and going to the Grammy Awards with him."

"It is quite the experience," she confirmed. "Sometimes I have to pinch myself to make sure this isn't all some elaborate dream I'm having."

Allison smiled. "You're on record as stating you do not believe the allegations made against Jake in the Catholic Monthly article that came out last month."

"I thought I told you not to go there," Jake said.

"I'm just confirming information that's already out there," Allison said.

"Jake tells me that article is a complete fabrication," Rachel said. "And I believe him, not just because he says so, but because I've been dating him now for a month and a half and I've seen no evidence whatsoever that he is capable of behaving that way."

"Good enough," she said, scrolling a note on her pad to go with the recording she was making of the conversation. "How about you, Jake? Were you attracted to Rachel from the start?"

Jake went over the story of their romance from his point-of-view, pretty much staying exactly aligned with her version. And, being the reporter that she was, she slowly edged the conversation back over to the Michelle Rourke article by approaching the subject from the flank instead of head on.

"I understand you're having a lot of trouble with the homeowners who live in the neighborhood where you're buying your house," she said. "How are things going on that front?"

"Just the way they should in America," Jake said. "They're free to shout and yell and hold signs up all they want and I'm free to move in there when escrow closes on March 2."

"So you are going forth with the transaction despite the clear disapproval of your neighbors?"

"That's correct. I've already started packing up things in my condo."

"Do you believe that there would have been all of this clamor regarding your new house if the Catholic Monthly article had not come out?"

"No," he said. "I don't."

"And in regards to that article," she said next. "If the allegations against you are untrue, as you claim, why aren't you suing the publication for libel?"

"Okay, end of interview," Jake said. "I told you not to go there."

"Jake, be reasonable," she said. "You have to talk about the article at some point. Michelle Rourke has accused you of being an abusive rapist. You can't just keep saying 'no comment' whenever you're asked about it."

"No comment," Jake said with a smile. "Come on, Rachel. Let's go mingle a bit, shall we?"

They walked off, leaving Allison to quickly scratch out a few more notes on her pad. It wasn't more than a minute before another reporter � this one from Entertainment Weekly � accosted them and began to ask the exact same questions.

In all it took more than an hour before the reporters stopped intercepting them and firing questions at the couple. They talked to each one but Jake prefaced each interview with a standard disclaimer that the conversation would come to a complete and sudden end if the subject of the Michelle Rourke article was brought up, either directly or indirectly. A few refused outright to restrict their questioning on that subject � after all, that was pretty much the only reason to interview the scrungy singer in the first place � and Jake refused to answer anything of these people. All of the rest agreed to the condition and asked questions about the relationship between Jake and Rachel, what Jake thought of his chances of actually winning one of the coveted gramophones, and what Jake's thoughts were on his stiffest competition for the awards, namely Steve Winwood and La Diferencia. Eventually, however, they always tried to work in the Rachel Rourke thing, some directly, some from the flank like Allison Stone. His response was always the same. He would immediately end the interview and excuse himself.

"Let's get another drink and then I'll introduce you to Celia and Eduardo Valdez," Jake suggested when a full fifteen minutes had gone by without an interception.

"Okay," Rachel said a little nervously. "Are you sure they won't mind?"

"I'm sure," he said.

They went to the bar and got two rum and cokes and then Jake led her through the crowded room to where the brother and sister from the famous pop band were standing amid a throng of reporters and other hanger-ons. As they came closer Jake noticed that several of the event's security force began to edge closer as well, their eyes watching Jake carefully. It seemed they had been briefed on what had happened the last time the two bands had been in the same room together.

Celia was wearing a conservative, light blue dress that fell to just below her knees. It displayed a small amount of her cleavage and covered her shoulders and most of her upper arms. She wore flats upon her feet, no doubt to keep from drawing attention to her height, which was just a hair under six feet tall. She smiled warmly as she saw Jake come up to her. Eduardo shot him a wary look and seemed to send a message with his eyes � don't fuck with us. The security guards tensed up as Jake and Rachel made it to within speaking distance.

"Jake Kingsley," Celia said, holding out her hand for a shake. "I kind of missed you here last year. We had a date to get rejected together, remember?"

Jake laughed, shaking with her. He caught a whiff of her perfume, which was the same intoxicating vanilla scent she'd had on at their first meeting. "We decided to take a year off from rejection," Jake said. "Besides, after that black eye Miguel gave me I didn't really want to show my face around here anyway." That had been during the fight that had taken place in the limo queue after the 1985 Grammies. Matt had insulted Celia in true Matt fashion and Eduardo, her brother, and Miguel, her family friend and bass player, had attacked him for it. Jake had been trying to pull Matt away from the scuffle when Miguel had swung a roundhouse at Matt, only to miss and hit Jake's face instead.

"He is genuinely sorry for hitting you, Jake," Celia said. "If you see him I'm sure he'll apologize to you."

"I'm over it," Jake said. "Like I said, it wasn't the first time I've been punched because of Matt's mouth and it won't be the last." He looked at Eduardo and held out his hand. "It's nice to see you again too," he said. "No hard feelings from last time?"

Eduardo nodded slowly. "No hard feelings," he said, shaking Jake's hand. "Although I cannot say the same for your friend the guitar player. It would probably be best if he and I didn't come within thirty feet of each other. He and Miguel as well, for that matter."

"I can't guarantee that," Jake said, "but I'll certainly mention it the next time I run into him." He turned to Rachel and put his hand on her back, gently bringing her forward. "Celia, Eduardo, this is Rachel Madison. I'm sure you've read that the two of us our dating. She really wanted to meet you guys. It seems she's quite the La Diferencia fan."

"Nice to meet you, Rachel," Celia said, putting out her hand and shaking with her. "It's nice to hear you appreciate our music."

"I love it," Rachel said, her eyes wide. "I have all of your albums. I listen to them in my car all the time."

Eduardo shook with her next. "That's a very lovely dress you have on by the way," he said. "Senor Versace should be proud."

"Thank you," Rachel said, smiling.

"Rachel has the major hots for you, Eduardo," Jake told him. "Particularly when you sport the goatee."

"Jake!" Rachel cried, blushing furiously. "You didn't have to tell him that!"

The three musicians chuckled. "Don't worry about it, Rachel," Celia told her. "Eduardo is hot. If he weren't my brother I'd be all over him."

"And if you weren't Jake's girlfriend I'd be chasing you all over the ballroom," Eduardo said. "You're one of the sexiest women here."

Her blush increased and she became more than a little tongue-tied. After a few minutes, however, she got over the affliction and entered into a giggling conversation with Eduardo about life in Venezuela and his early days in the band.

"I think he's going to steal my girlfriend," Jake said jokingly to Celia.

"Well, you know what they say about us Latin types," She responded.

"No, the only Latin word I learned from you was cabron, remember? I do try to use it in conversation as often as possible."

"It is a very versatile word," she confirmed, "although it's not generally used in polite company."

"I'm not often in polite company," Jake said, making her laugh.

"So what do you think our chances are this year?" Celia asked. "The competition is not all that stiff. Our single Lovers In Love sold more copies than any other single this year and your album Balance Of Power sold more than any other album. You're still at number one on the charts, in fact."

"Well, we both know that sales figures are not what gets someone a Grammy," Jake said. "If that were true we'd both have several of them."

"Yes, it does all seem to be at the whim of the recording industry, doesn't it?" she asked.

"It's all rigged," Jake said. "I figured that out long before I was ever a professional musician. I did have opportunity to listen to some of the deep cuts on your albums though."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said. "Rachel had them in her car and I borrowed them. I didn't know that you were a songwriter as well as a singer and guitarist."

"I have to fight to get any of my songs recorded," she said. "They throw them to me as bones to keep me happy and then use them for filler on the albums."

"That's too bad," he said. "The first one I heard was Carabobo. Your guitar work on that one is amazing. And the lyrics are deep and moving. I can't imagine why they didn't want to release that as a single."

"I barely got that one on the album at all," she said. "They said the lyrics were too dark, that the subject was not part of the La Diferencia formula."

"They do always seem to think they know what's right," Jake said. "If I were producing your records I would be encouraging you to write more. Exactly what war are you talking about in the song anyway? Is it something Venezuelan?"

She seemed pleased that he knew the song was about war. "It's about the Battle of Carabobo," she said. "It was during our War of Independence from Spain in the early 1800s. The Battle of Carabobo was the turning point, when our army destroyed the Spanish land forces and insured that we win the war and be free. We celebrate the day of the battle � June 24 � as a national holiday."

"It's a very deep song," Jake said. "They really should give you guys a little more artistic license over your material."

"Like they give you?" she asked. "I heard you were able to renegotiate your contract with National Records and gain a lot of musical freedom, as well as a lot more money. Is that true?"

"I can't even tell you 'no comment' on that one," he whispered to her. She took the comment for what he'd intended � an affirmation.

"I'd love to be able to do nothing but our songs," she said. "Some of the stuff they have us recording for the next album is... well..."

"Not good?" he asked.

"It's not that it's not good," she said. "It's just that I think it's starting to get kind of stale. It all sounds like the same songs we've already done. The rhythms are all the same two-chord melodies with lots of synthesizers and not enough guitar work. It's a formula that's worked so far � obviously � but our fans are growing up now and becoming more musically sophisticated. Music itself is undergoing a transformation too. I really want to mature with the genre and I have dozens of ideas for new songs but our A&R guy doesn't want to even hear them. I only got one song on the album we're recording now. The rest are from the songwriting team. "

"We work in a sleazy and blind industry," Jake said. "They'll gladly kill the goose that lays the golden egg and then tell themselves that the goose was going to die of natural causes anyway. All they look to is the next quarter and how many albums we'll sell using whatever formula worked for the first album. They have a hard time going beyond that."

"So what's the solution?" she asked. "Keep going down the chute until they're not interested in you anymore and then show up for a reunion tour in twenty years?"

"If that's the road you want to travel, yes," Jake said. "Myself, I believe in getting control of my own musical destiny by any means possible. I don't want to be a where-are-they-now segment on MTV in twenty years. I want people to still know my name twenty years from now."

Celia nodded, her green eyes appraising him as she thought over this little bit of wisdom. "Well put," she said.

The 29^th annual Grammy Awards were held on February 24^th, a Tuesday night. Intemperance was up for Record Of The Year, Song Of The Year, Album Of The Year, and Best Recording By A Duo Or Group. La Diferencia was up for these four awards as well. Neither band was awarded a single Grammy. Neither band was terribly surprised or disappointed by their failure.

After the ceremony was over Rachel went back to Jake's condo and they had sex for the first time. She undressed from her outfit in his bathroom and entered the bedroom completely naked. Jake relished his first look at her petite body. Her curves were in all the right places, her breasts were riding high and firm upon her chest, and her pubic area was framed by a neatly trimmed nest of blonde, curly hair only half a shade darker than the hair on her head.

She seemed a bit nervous as she came to his bed but this nervousness faded and was replaced by excitement as she put her naked body against his and they began to kiss the passionate exchanges of lovers. He kissed her everywhere, working his way down to her breasts and suckling her for the better part of ten minutes. From there, he went lower, down across her hips to her legs. He kissed her inner thighs and began to move upward again, licking and nibbling at the increasingly soft flesh.

Her musk was strong and fresh as he put his mouth between those widely spread legs and began to lick at her vaginal lips. When he began plunging his tongue in and out of her the sounds she had been making changed from utterances that sounded suspiciously contrived to deep, spontaneous moans of passion and lust. He began to lick at her swollen clitoris while plunging two fingers in and out of her tight vagina. Her moans became louder and her pelvis began to rise and fall on the bed. When he began sucking the clitoris, treating it like a small nipple, she screamed out her pleasure and began to buck up and down. Her orgasm blasted out of her with a force Jake had not expected. She nearly strangled him with her legs as she shouted out obscenities. Jake had no idea that he was the first man to ever lick her down there for more than two minutes, the first man to ever lick her clitoris at all, and that the orgasm he'd sucked from her body was the first she'd ever had that had been produced by anything other than her own fingers.

"Oh my God, Jake," she panted when he raised his face from between her legs. "That was... that was... God."

"I'm glad you liked it," he said mildly, planting a little kiss right in the middle of her blonde bush.

"Come up and do it to me now," she said. "I'm ready."

"Not yet," he said. "I haven't finished my dinner yet."

"Huh?" she asked. "You mean... you want to do that... again?"

He licked his lips. "Yeah," he said, putting his head back down. It was another twenty minutes and three orgasms before he brought it back up.

She held her legs widely open as he brought himself up into the standard missionary mounting position. Her hands were everywhere, touching his stomach, his chest, his thighs, his penis. "Come on," she said. "Do it to me, Jake! Fuck me!"

"I intend to," he said, leaning over toward the nightstand next to the bed and pulling open the drawer.

"What are you doing?" she asked, feeling his ass cheeks now.

"Just getting a rubber," he said.

"A rubber? You don't need one of those. I'm on the pill."

"I know," he said, giving his standard answer. "It's more for your protection than mine."

"Huh?" she said, confused.

"I have a clean bill of health," he said, "but I have been with... you know... some women of questionable standards in the past. It would just make me feel better if we used protection."

"Oh... I see," she said, her face falling a little.

He pulled a condom from the drawer and quickly removed it from its packaging. He rolled it expertly into place. He then leaned down and kissed her. "Don't be mad," he said. "It's just a condom."

"I'm not mad," she told him, kissing him back.

He put himself inside of her and began to move, thrusting in and out of her tightness, utilizing every move he'd ever come up with to give her pleasure. And pleasure was just what she got. She came three more times � each more powerful than the one before � before he let himself go and sprayed his semen into the reservoir tip of the unlubricated condom.

"Wow, Jake," she said, her body covered with sweat, her pale skin flushed. "I've never had sex like that before."

"Then you've never had sex," Jake told her with a smile. He stood up.

"Where are you going?" she asked. "Don't you want to snuggle with me?"

"I'll be right back," he said, "and then we'll snuggle all night if you want."

Before she could say anything else he stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He removed the condom carefully and tied a knot in the end of it, keeping anything from spilling out. He dropped it in the toilet, urinated, and then flushed everything away. He then took a washrag from a drawer next to the sink, wet it, and cleansed all of the lingering semen from his penis, even going so far as to squeeze it and make sure every last drop had come out.

He hardly even thought about what he was doing, the precautions against having any of his sperm get into his partner's body � either by accident or design � was so ingrained in him by this point in his life.

He went back to the bedroom and crawled under the covers, putting his naked body next to Rachel's. He went almost immediately to sleep. Rachel lay awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling, occasionally tossing and turning. She had never spent the night in a man's bed before and was not used to it.

On March 2 the escrow on Jake's new house closed and he was given the keys. When he arrived there just before noon he found several dozen picketers from the homeowner's association holding up signs and several news crews who were covering the event.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he mumbled as they filmed him stepping out of his Corvette and as the picketers began to chant "Live somewhere else, live somewhere else!" at the top of their lungs.

He ignored them as best he could and used the keys to enter the house that was now officially his, that had been recorded in the Los Angeles County hall of records as belonging to Jake Kingsley. Soon the mortgage payments would begin to arrive at the offices of Yamashito, Yamashito, and Yamashito and Jill would pay the Third Bank of Orange County $4,400.50 per month plus $3375 ever three months for property taxes plus a yearly homeowners insurance premium of $950 out of his accounts.

Jake's furniture and other belonging from his condo arrived in a moving truck less than an hour later. As the team of movers began to bring things inside his every possession was filmed and documented by the news crews outside. By the time they'd finished up two of the reporters even tried to interview the movers themselves to question them about some of the more personal items they might have seen amidst Jake Kingsley's possessions. As they'd been instructed by both Jake and the owner of their company (a man who'd moved Jake twice before and who had collected nearly twice his normal rate for this particular job) they kept their friggin mouths shut, saying nothing but "no comment" whenever they were asked. When they left Jake tipped each of them one hundred dollars.

Rachel arrived shortly after four o'clock. Her classes at UCLA were done for the day and, thanks to the increased business her mother's restaurant was doing now that it was famous, she no longer had to work as a waitress very often. She too had to run the gauntlet of reporters and protestors in order to get inside. She was very nearly in tears as she sat down at Jake's dining room table and swallowed the stiff drink he'd made for her.

"One of those assholes out there called me 'the wife of the anti-Christ!" she said. "They don't even know me! How can they stand out in front of your house and yell at your guests like that, Jake? Can't you call the cops on them?"

"It wouldn't do any good," Jake said. "They're not breaking the law. They're standing on a public sidewalk and exercising their First Amendment rights to free speech and assembly. If they're still doing it after ten o'clock tonight, I can call the cops on them for disturbing the peace, but they're pretty much free to picket all they want until then."

"It's just not right," she said. "Sometimes the First Amendment lets people get away with too much."

"Well, that's what the bible thumpers were saying about me in Cincinnati," he said. "I'm sure they'll go away eventually."

He was right. Jake and Rachel spent the next three hours putting away dishes and silverware and clothes and a hundred other belongings. Jake explained to her about the new furniture he was going to buy to go with his new house and showed her where we was going to put it. He offered to let her help with the interior design and soon she was throwing around suggestions as well.

They forgot about the protestors outside and, at around six o'clock, they decided to break in the new bedroom with a lengthy sex session upon his bed.

"Do me from behind again," Rachel said breathlessly as he stripped her of her clothing. "I really liked it that way."

"I'm here to please," Jake said, pulling a condom from his supply and rolling it down his erection.

Later, Jake cooked dinner for her, using his new barbeque to broil up a couple of New York steaks. By the time the dinner mess was cleaned up all of the protestors and all of the reporters were gone. Peace had returned to the neighborhood it seemed.

Rachel stayed the night with him and they had another extended sex session before dropping off to sleep around eleven o'clock. The next morning Jake went outside in his robe to see if the newspaper service he'd arranged for had dropped off a copy of the LA Times. They had, but that was not the only object that had been dropped off.

A large wooden cross had been erected directly in the middle of his front lawn. It stood more than ten feet high, the crosspiece about seven feet from end to end. Written on the left arm of the cross piece, in red paint, was the word: JESUS. On the right side of the crosspiece was the word: SAVES! Written in vertical letters down the upright portion of the cross were the words: REPENT SINNER! JOHN 3:16.

Jake was beyond outraged. He called the police to report the vandalism to his house. It took almost two hours before two black and whites arrived in his driveway. Two patrol officers and their lieutenant � all of them well over the age of forty � stepped out and examined the cross blankly. They then came in and took a report from Jake, asking questions in monotone voices that did not succeed in belaying an almost childlike amusement at his predicament.

"So what is going to be done about this?" Jake asked.

The lieutenant shrugged disinterestedly. "Not much, I'd imagine. There's no actual damage to your house, you know. I don't see any need to even classify this as anything other than simple vandalism really, and even that might not fly if we did, somehow, manage to catch the people responsible."

"Simple vandalism?" Jake asked. "They put a cross on my front yard. When that happened to a black family over in Westwood a couple of months ago the FBI got involved in it."

"That's a little different, Mr. Kingsley," the lieutenant said. "That was a hate crime. The people who did that lit that cross on fire in order to intimidate a black family for moving into a white neighborhood."

"How is that different?" Jake asked. "Some bible thumping hypocrites put a cross in my yard to try to intimidate me for moving into a neighborhood where they don't think I belong."

"Well... you're white," he responded. "You're not even Jewish." He looked at him. "Are you?"

"No, I'm not Jewish," Jake said.

"And they didn't burn the cross, they simply placed it in your yard."

"They even used cement," one of the cops added, as if that made everything okay.

"So you're saying that if they would have lit the cross on fire, it would've been a crime, but since they only put biblical crap on it, it's okay?"

"No need to degrade the bible," the lieutenant said harshly. "As I said, they were probably just trying to suggest to you that maybe you should repent. From what I've heard you've got a lot to repent for."

"What I do or do not need to repent for is irrelevant to this discussion," Jake said. "They put a cross on my front yard!"

The lieutenant stood up. "We've taken a report on that," he said. "I don't see how there's anything else we can do for you, Mr. Kingsley. If I were you I'd look up that passage in the bible � assuming you even own a copy � and take to heart what it says. Jesus died for your sins and you're making a mockery of that sacrifice with that music you make. I can't say I blame those folks for trying to point out what you represent to them."

The cops left, driving off in their cars, leaving an incensed Jake in their wake.

"Are you okay, hon?" Rachel asked, her fingers caressing his shoulders.

"Yeah," he said. "I need to make a phone call."

He went to the phone and dialed Matt's number from memory.

"Wassup, homey?" Matt asked. "How was your first night in the new pad?"

"It was okay," he said. "Listen, I've been thinking."

"Yeah? About what?"

"What do you think about doing It's In The Book on the next album after all?"

National Records Building, Los Angeles

June 16, 1987

The argument had been going on for more than thirty minutes now with Matt holding firm to one extreme, Bill holding firm to the other extreme, and Jake trying to get the two of them to meet somewhere in the middle. They were in one of the mixing rooms of the recording studio in the basement of the building. It was far from the first argument that had taken place within those hallowed walls.

They had entered the recording studio on April 1 after finalizing the tracks they planned to record for It's In The Book, their fourth studio album. Once the band agreed to record Jake's controversial tune and name the album after it, National became very open to any and all other tracks. The only one of the thirteen songs Intemperance had submitted in their demo tape that caused any question was I Am Time.

"No lead guitar?" Crow and Bailey had asked doubtfully, both wondering if the song was another one of their joke songs like they'd submitted during the contract dispute. Those songs had been about picking boogers, choosing a brand of soup in the grocery store, and angry tirades full of gutter profanity. I Am Time was a song from a hard rock group with no lead guitar, only a lead harmonica.

"It's an experimental piece," Matt had explained to them. "We know it's a departure from our normal shit but we all like the tune a lot and we want it on the next album."

"But a harmonica?" Crow asked.

"It's a harmonica that rocks," Jake said. "We're not asking for you to release it as a single or anything. It's just a deep cut filler tune."

Crow and Bailey had balked at this for the better part of two days, urging the band to pick another tune as filler, but eventually they gave in. They wanted to get It's In The Book recorded as soon as possible and using their veto power on a filler tune just didn't seem worth the effort.

The band had worked six days a week, nine hours a day for two solid months and recorded all of the musical and vocal tracks for the new album in near record time. They were now veterans of the recording process and did not require nearly as many takes per track as they had in their earlier albums. Now that every guitar track, every bass track, every vocal, piano, and drum track had been captured to near perfection on individual reels, they needed to mix them together, blending all the tracks at proper levels onto a master recording tape. It was here where the differing philosophies of the three core Intemperance members began to cause tempers to flare and the process to bog down in arguments and disagreements.

I Am Time, the so-called "filler" tune, was the subject of the current mixing room argument. Jake, Nerdly, and Matt sat in chairs before a complex soundboard, headphones hanging around their necks. George Harmon and Roger Covent, the head studio technician and his first assistant, sat at another soundboard across the room, listening helplessly as the three musicians pounded another minor detail into the ground. George and Roger had both liked it a lot better when Intemperance had been operating under their first contract and had had no official input whatsoever in how their songs were mixed.

"I'm telling you," Matt said for the tenth or twelfth time, "Time sounds perfect the way it's mixed now. There ain't no fuckin' reason to put any overdubs at all on it, let alone a goddamn synthesizer track."

An overdub was an additional track to a song put on after the basic tune was recorded and mixed. Generally the overdubs were minor enhancements that would be barely noticed by anyone but a professional musician or a professional sound mixer but that served to make the music blend together more harmoniously on the recording. All of the previous Intemperance albums had overdubbed additional guitar, cymbal, and piano tracks on almost every song. Matt hated the very concept of the overdub because by using them it meant more instruments were being played than the band actually possessed. Nerdly loved overdubs and thought they weren't used nearly enough. Jake was somewhere in the middle. He didn't have a problem with the concept of overdubbing when it served to smooth out the rough edges on the recorded tunes but he didn't want them used to the extent that the basic sound of the song was changed in any way.

"It's just a slight intro synthesizer track," Nerdly said, "and then a gentle background melody that will mix with the piano tracks. At least listen to what it sounds like before you start ranting about it."

"I don't have to listen to it," Matt said. "There's no fucking synthesizer in our band, Nerdly. Have you ever fucking noticed that?"

"Well maybe there should be," Nerdly said. "Led Zepplin used a synthesizer on their last two albums. Is there a law that says Intemperance can't use one too?"

"Yes, there's a law," Matt said. "It's my fucking law. There will be no synthesizers on any Intemperance song, period! That includes live and in the studio! And there's no fucking reason to put any overdubs at all into Time. The song is intended to be a simple piece."

Both of them began looking at Jake to support their respective positions. He sighed, knowing that the middle ground here was not really a fun place to be. "Look," he said. "I have to agree about the whole synthesizer thing, Nerdly. We're a hard rock band and we don't go there."

"You see?" Matt said triumphantly. "Even Jake agrees with me. No fucking overdubs on Time."

"Well, I didn't exactly say that, Matt," Jake said.

"What? What the fuck you talking about?"

"I said there should be no synthesizer overdubbing on Time. I do think we should do some basic acoustic overdubs to help back up my rhythm guitar on the piece."

"Acoustic overdubs?" Matt said. "Jake, that puts two guitars in the tune in addition to the harmonica. Two guitars! We can't reproduce that live unless we hire another fucking guitar player!"

"It's nothing that anyone is going to notice on the album," Jake said. "I'll just play an exact acoustic version of the rhythm and we'll blend it in on top of the main distorted version. We keep the level mid-range for the string strikes on the overdub and low for the follow-through. That way we'll have the string-strikes come through in a way they don't when the rhythm is distorted."

"But what about when we play it live?" Matt asked. "We can't reproduce that. It won't sound as good as the recorded version."

"People don't expect the live version to sound as good as the studio version," Jake said. "You should know that. As good as Nerdly is at concert sound mixing, we would never pull something like that off anyway. We've done this kind of overdub on quite a few of our tracks. Has anyone complained about how it doesn't sound the same in concert?"

Matt fumed but had to admit that Jake was right. Intemperance's reputation as a live act was irreproachable. "Fine," he said, throwing up his arms in surrender. "Put in your fucking overdubs. It's your goddamn song, isn't it?"

"It's our song, Matt, and I'm just trying to do what I think is best."

"That's what I'm trying to do too," Matt replied. "I gave in on this. You don't need to rub it in."

"So... do we have a consensus here?" asked George Harmon.

"Yeah," Matt said. "We have a consensus. Go ahead and start setting Jake up to record an acoustic overdub for Time. No fucking synthesizers though. I ever see you playing one of them things, Nerdly, and I'm gonna take a shit on it."

"I was just trying to do what's best too," Nerdly said softly, obviously upset that his plans had been voted down.

Their tempers calmed a bit over the next hour as they started the basic mixing process for Can't Chain Me. All agreed that no overdubbing was necessary in this tune since it featured two grinding electric guitars and had a passion to its sound that didn't require any kind of enhancement. There were some mild disagreements about the sound levels on the piano and drum tracks but they worked their way through these without too much strife � or at least they did by 5:45 PM, which was their official quitting time for the day.

"You want to go up and take a look at the album cover?" Jake asked Nerdly and Matt as they left the recording studio and waited for the elevator. "Jim and Sandy told me they should have the final version done and ready for approval by the end of the day."

"Sure, I'll check it out," Matt said.

"I'll have to made arrangements to peruse it at a later date," Nerdly said. "I have someplace I need to be tonight."

"Yeah?" asked Matt. "You getting some puss tonight?"

"Is the speed of light in vacuum a universal constant?" Nerdly asked.

"That means yes, right?" Matt asked.

"Yes," Nerdly allowed. "I'm taking two lovely young ladies to the planetarium for a romantic evening. We're then going to proceed back to my place to engage in extensive fornication of the quasi-legal variety."

"The planetarium, huh?" Jake asked. "Who could resist that?"

"Exactly," Nerdly agreed.

The elevator arrived. All three stepped inside. Nerdly got off on the first floor. Jake and Matt remained aboard until it reached the fourth floor, where the graphic arts department was located. They walked down the hall and entered the windowless, brightly lit room where most of the company's album covers were designed. Dozens of shabbily dressed graphic artists of varying age sat at desks with computer terminals working on a variety of projects. Most of them smoked and the haze of cigarette smoke in the room was on the same level as that found in a crowded bar on a Saturday night. They found Jim Handy and Sandy Pearl � the team assigned to the Intemperance album � sitting at their desks near the back of the room. Jim was about forty years old, a poor dresser, morbidly obese and poor on hygiene, but a very talented artist. Sandy was about thirty, almost anorexically skinny, a lesbian, and, if anything, even more talented than her partner.

"Hey, guys," Sandy greeted, putting out her smoke and immediately lighting up another one. "Glad you could make it up. We were just about to hit it for the day."

Jim had to finish the Twinkie he'd just crammed in his mouth before he could speak. When he did, he greeted them as well. "I think you'll really like what we came up with, Jake. It's pretty much just what you told us. I showed it to Crow earlier and he just about came in his panties."

"That's probably because he was checking out your ass, Jimmy," Matt said, making reference to the fact that Crow was a notoriously horny bisexual who hit upon just about anything that walked on two legs.

"Hey, there are some things that even I won't eat," Jim said, laughing much more than his joke actually warranted.

He reached into his desk and pulled out two sheets of photo paper, each the size of an album cover. They represented the front and back of what would appear on the next release. He handed them to Jake first, since it was Jake who had dictated what he envisioned.

"Wow," Jake said, impressed, as he perused the front cover. "You outdid yourselves on this one."

The centerpiece of the front cover was not a graphic design or a drawing but a photograph that Jake himself had taken. It was a picture of the cross that had been cemented into his front lawn on the night he'd moved into his new home. JESUS SAVES and REPENT SINNER! JOHN 3:16 were plainly visible in the photo, as was the front of Jake's house. Jake knew that most people, upon seeing the album cover, would know what this was a picture of since the incident had been reported on the AP wire the day following the event and published in newspapers throughout the nation, usually as a comedic type of piece in the back of the entertainment sections � a little amusing story about how the satanic domestic abuser Jake Kingsley had been put in his place by his virtuous neighbors.

Over the top of the album cover, above the cross, written in bold black calligraphy was the title: It's In The Book. Above that, in much smaller letters, was the band's name: Intemperance. Arrayed around the cross in overlapping fashion were multiple photographs and graphic representations of atrocities committed in the name of Christianity. There was a famous painting of the crusades in which Christian soldiers were slaughtering those who did not believe as they did. There was a picture of American Indians being marched off to a reservation under armed guard by American soldiers. There was a scene from the Holocaust of Jews being marched off towards the gas chambers of Auschwitz. There was a picture of Jimmy Swaggert crying as he confessed his sins to a nationwide audience. There was a picture of a water fountain in the White House that read "Whites Only". There were pictures of religious protestors outside of Intemperance concerts carrying their signs. There was a picture of protesters at the annual Gay Pride parade in Los Angeles holding a banner that read AIDS IS GOD'S PUNISHMENT FOR YOUR SINS!

There were also several pictures that were very personal to Jake. Just below the cross was a picture of a black bowling ball upon which someone had written in white paint: GET BACK TO BABYLON, SINNER! That particular bowling ball had been launched somehow through Jake's front window at 2:30 AM the second week he lived in his new house. The police had taken a report, dismissed the incident as mere vandalism, and no suspect had ever been caught or even questioned.

There was also a picture of five gallon sized containers of muratic acid lying overturned on a piece of stamped cement. This was perhaps the most personal of the pictures, and the most infuriating from Jake's point of view.

The incident that had led to this picture occurred a month after Jake had moved into his new house. At this point Jake had already been subjected to multiple visits by the LAPD as a result of calls placed by his neighbors. The patrol teams who showed up were usually accompanied by his good friend Lieutenant Baker, the watch commander who had shrugged off the cross-placing incident and suggested Jake should just do as suggested and repent. Three of these visits were for noise complaints about loud music � all of which had taken place in broad daylight when he'd had nothing but a radio playing at moderate volume while out in his back yard. Two had been because of reports that he was doing drugs (one had been because he'd smoked some pot out in his patio while cooking steaks and one of his neighbors had smelled it, the other had been completely unfounded � neither Jake nor Rachel had even been home at the time). The other visit had been just after nine o'clock one evening as he and Rachel had been swimming naked in the swimming pool. The complaint that time had been "indecent exposure", even though no one could have possibly seen anything that took place in his back yard unless they had climbed onto a ladder to peer over his privacy hedges.

In all of these cases no charges were filed � mostly because there were no grounds upon which to file any � but the cops had felt the need to give him stern lectures about watching his actions if he wanted to get along with his neighbors. They all suggested that maybe if he moved somewhere else � like Beverly Hills where such antics were commonplace � he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.

And then came the morning of March 31. Jake and Rachel had just spent the week in Maui and had arrived back home around 10:00 PM, both of them still feeling like they were on Hawaii Time instead of Pacific Time. As a result, they had still been awake at 12:30 AM and had decided that maybe a little soak in the hot tub and a few glasses of wine would be just the ticket to get them re-aligned for the coming workweek in which Jake would begin the rigorous recording schedule. As they'd descended the steps from the bedroom balcony to the patio Jake spotted a large silhouette standing next to his hot tub, dumping something from a container into the water.

"Hey!" he'd yelled. "What the fuck are you doing?"

The figure dropped the container and began to run toward the back gate that led out to the street. Jake, dressed in nothing but a robe, chased after him, mostly out of instinct. The figure moved fast but was forced to a stop when he reached the closed gate. Jake slammed into him at top speed, finding that whomever it was he was chasing was well over six feet tall and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. Amped up, he ignored the danger to himself and threw the figure down to the ground. The person began to kick and punch at him, landing a few shots on Jake's legs and side. Jake � who had always tried to walk away from battle when he could but who was nonetheless a veteran of many brawls (usually fomented by Matt) � threw three punches, each of them landing squarely on the intruder's face. He felt the crunch of a nose, the shattering of a tooth or two, and the thud of a cheekbone. The intruder, dazed, gave up the fight and Jake was able to drag him back to the patio and confine him to a chair until the LAPD � summoned by Rachel this time � arrived ten minutes later.

It turned out that the intruder was the sixteen-year-old son of his across-the-street neighbor � a kid who probably wouldn't be able to solve any physics equations but who played linebacker for the local Jesuit High School. What he had been pouring into the hot tub was five gallons of muratic acid, more than a thousand times the normal amount, an amount that had raised the Ph level of the water up to a skin-blistering reading of 4.1 when it was tested two hours later. A hazardous materials team from the LAFD had to respond in order to safely drain it and the tub was deemed a complete loss due to the acid damage.

"What would have happened," Jake asked one of the fire department's HAZMAT specialists as they did their work, "if we would have gotten into that hot tub with that much acid in there?"

"You would have gotten second degree chemical burns all over your bodies," the firefighter � an Intemperance fan as it turned out � replied matter-of-factly. "More than likely you would have been permanently disfigured everywhere the water would have touched and there's a good chance that you," he looked at Jake, "would have lost function of your... you know... your male parts."

"Jesus Christ," Jake said, shuddering at the thought.

"And that's not even the worst," the firefighter said, almost gleefully.

"What's the worst?" Jake asked him.

"You would've gotten really severe respiratory burns if you'd breathed any of those fumes in. The way the wind is blowing tonight, I'm thinking there's a good chance you wouldn't have smelled anything funny until it was too late. Once you got in the spa and got a good whiff of something this acidic you're talking chemical pneumonia at the very least, possibly even... you know... death from respiratory failure."

"This is attempted murder," Pauline told the detectives who responded to the scene. "Attempted mayhem at the very least. And I think we all know who is behind it."

Jake certainly had no doubt who was behind it. The father of the linebacker was Frank Overland, the owner of several car dealerships throughout Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley. Overland was the vice-president of the homeowner's association and one of the most vocal protestors regarding Jake's presence in the house. He was also a notorious bible-thumper. He had been accused several times of firing employees when he found out they were homosexuals or atheists. His car lots were always closed on Sundays � one of the biggest car-buying days of the week � and had large signs placed in front that read: CLOSED TODAY � SEE YOU IN CHURCH! Jake had no problem envisioning Overland instructing his teenage son in how to put the mark of God upon that heathen sinner with five gallons of muratic acid.

The police � unsurprisingly � did not see things quite the same way. They refused to file felony charges against the linebacker and refused to even entertain the idea that his father might have put him up to it. They told Jake he could make a citizen's arrest of the linebacker for misdemeanor vandalism charges, but that if he were to do so the boy's father might be inclined to push for felony assault charges against Jake.

"He was trespassing in my backyard," Jake said, quite exasperated by this point. "Did we forget that little tidbit of information?"

"That doesn't mean you have the right to beat him senseless," Lieutenant Baker said. "Truth be told, if I thought the DA would actually file felony charges for this I'd personally arrest you right now. But the DA's one of those puke-sack liberals and he'd more than likely just reduce it down to a simple assault that those high-priced mouthpieces of yours would get dismissed at the first hearing."

So in the end, no charges were filed against anyone and both sides agreed to avoid civil proceedings as well. Overland paid for his son's medical bills and Jake paid for a new hot tub (as well as enough security lights and motion detecting intrusion alarms to open his own prison).

The news reports of the incident all read something along the lines of "JAKE KINGSLEY BEATS A NEIGHBORHOOD CHILD HE CAUGHT IN HIS BACKYARD." The accompanying articles would always mention the broken nose, the broken teeth, and the broken cheekbone Jake had inflicted, but none mentioned that the "child" in question was a linebacker on the football team who was taller than Jake, outweighed him by fifty pounds, and who had started fighting first. There was also never any mention of exactly what the "child" had been doing in Jake's backyard other than to mention that he had been vandalizing the hot tub. They always made it sound as if he'd been dumping dish soap or some other harmless substance into the water as a friendly prank.

The picture of the five muratic acid containers on the album cover was taken from the official crime-scene investigation photos and, per Jake's request, Jim and Sandy had made it a little larger than most of the other pictures. Just above it was a shot that Jake had taken of one of Overland's Sunday signs for his car lots � CLOSED TODAY, SEE YOU IN CHURCH!

"I like the pictures," Matt said, looking over Jake's shoulder at the representation of the cover. "Especially the one with the KKK burning a cross. The bible verses are a nice touch too."

"Yeah," Jake said, "that's my favorite part."

Arrayed in random patterns between the pictures were graphic printings in blood red of various biblical verse numbers. All of them were verses in which some form of discrimination or violence in the name of God or Jesus were spelled out. There was Leviticus 18:22, which was the main verse used by Christians to condemn homosexuality. There was Exodus 22:18, which had been the basis of the Salem witch trials of the seventeenth century. There was Leviticus 20:24 which advocated racism against blacks. There was John 8:44 which advocated persecution of Jews. There was Exodus 23:24, which advocated intolerance of all non-Christian religions. The verses themselves were not printed out, just the numbers. Printed across the middle of the entire album in large, gray lettering that blended in with the basic color of the cover and was barely visible unless you viewed the cover under the right type of lighting, was a different verse, one that many Christians seemed to forget about even though it was supposedly one of the tenets of their religion. It was Matthew 7:1, part of Jesus' Temple on the Mount sermon, the part that read: Judge not, lest ye be judged.

"I like it," Jake said. "That's a particularly good effect with Matthew 7:1. It's symbolic of the whole shitstorm I'm going through with these freaks. It's the biggest verse there, taking up most of the cover, yet it's hardly visible."

"That's fuckin' deep, Jake," Matt said. "How did you know all those bible verses anyway? Your old man didn't use to send you to Sunday school, did he?"

"No, I have actually read the bible several times in my life."

"No shit? Why would you do something like that?"

Jake shrugged. "So that when some Christian fundamentalist starts preaching to me I'm already pre-armed. I can out-debate most bible thumpers with one hand tied behind my back. It's come in handy on more than one occasion."

"Screw debating," Matt said. "I just punch those fuckheads in the mouth when they start that shit with me."

Jake smiled. "Sometimes I think that's not a bad philosophy either."

Jake arrived home just before seven o'clock. There were no protesters, news crews, or police cars in front of his house as he pulled into the circular driveway and took the narrow cement driveway that led to the garage. For a while the homeowner's association had kept up a daily picket of his property during the day (when he usually wasn't even there) but their enthusiasm for that had pretty much died out after only a few weeks, especially when the news crews stopped covering it. After that they'd satisfied themselves with calling the LAPD on him every few days and performing acts of vandalism at night.

So far there had not even been an incident of any kind since the night of the muratic acid in his hot tub. He had smoked pot in his backyard, had sex with Rachel on his patio furniture, and played his music loudly during the day on several occasions but no cops had shown up. Nor had there been any further acts of vandalism of any kind. Jake wasn't sure why they'd stopped calling the cops on him but he had a reasonably good idea of why the vandalism had stopped. Three days after the muratic acid incident � just as the issue had finally died in the press � Jake had spotted Frank Overland out walking his dachshund and had gone out to have a little chat with him.

"What do you want?" Overland said toughly as Jake put himself on the sidewalk before him.

"We need to talk," Jake said. "Or rather, I need to talk and you need to listen."

"I have nothing to speak with you about," Overland told him. "Now move out of my way or I'll have you arrested."

"But I have something to say to you and I'm not moving until you've heard it. Don't worry, it's short and quite to the point."

"Are you going to threaten me?" Overland scoffed.

"Yes," Jake said, staring into the man's eyes. "That's exactly what I'm going to do."

The first hint of disconcert appeared in his eyes at this point. "I should warn you," he said, "that I..."

"No," Jake interrupted, "I should warn you, which is exactly what I'm doing. I'm going to say this once and once only. You stepped way over the line when you had your kid come over to my house and try to burn me with acid. The bowling ball and the cross I can forget about if not forgive, but trying to disfigure me..." he shook his head. "You're no better than those assholes in the inquisition. I think you would've fit right in with them."

"I had nothing to do with any of that," Overland said.

"I think you did," Jake said. "And it will stop as of this moment. I'm a very rich man, Overland, richer than you could ever hope to be with your sleazy car lots. I also know a lot of people who would be willing to commit any number of criminal acts for the right amount of money. From now on, if something happens to my house, to me, to anyone associated with me, and I have a reasonable suspicion that you are behind it, I am going to talk to a few of my people, pass a few envelopes full of money, and there is going to be retaliation that is at least twice as bad as whatever you did to me."

"You can't threaten me like that," Overland said.

"Yes, I can," Jake said. "And I am entirely serious about this. If a bowling ball comes flying through my window again, a stolen car is going to go crashing through yours. If a cross should appear on my lawn, a pipe bomb is gonna go flying into your living room. If your son should appear on my property again for any reason � if I even suspect he's been creeping around on my property � a couple of thugs with prison tattoos are gonna grab him a few days later and put him in the hospital. And if I or anybody I know is injured in any way because of one of your stunts � if I even think that you're responsible in some way � your wife and your kid are gonna end up in the fuckin' morgue. Do I make myself clear, Overland?"

"You wouldn't dare," Overland said, trying to maintain his tough persona but doing a poor job of it. He had paled considerably during Jake's speech and fear was plainly evident in his eyes.

"Try me," Jake said. "The gloves are off now."

And before Overland could even respond to him, Jake had walked away. He was bluffing, of course. He knew no thugs willing to break bones or toss pipe bombs, let alone willing to kill a prominent local businessman's family, and he wouldn't go to such extremes even if he did, but it seemed that Overland had believed him, or at least was unsure enough not to risk the consequences Jake had outlined. In this case Jake's reputation � that he was a badass, quick-tempered, violent Satanist � worked for him.

As he parked his Corvette in the four-car garage next to Rachel's Cabriolet and his housekeeper's Toyota Corolla, he was tired and hungry, his nerves on edge from another day of arguing with Matt and Nerdly. He trudged from the garage across the open cement path that led to the main house and entered the side door into the kitchen. His mood immediately improved when he smelled the mouth-watering aroma of garlic and tomato sauce in the air.

Elsa Tyler, the woman he'd hired as his live-in housekeeper and cook, was standing at the counter in the middle of the kitchen, cutting up romaine lettuce and fresh spinach greens for a salad. A pot of something was boiling away on the stovetop alongside a huge covered skillet.

"What is that smell, Elsa?" he asked, putting his car keys on a hook next to the door (failing to do this would incur the unencumbered wrath of Elsa when he asked her where his keys were). "It's Italian with lots of garlic, but I can't quite pin down the actual dish."

"Welcome home, Jake," she said. "It's Chicken Parmesan cooked in extra virgin olive oil with freshly grated Parmesan and homemade Italian breadcrumbs. I'll be serving it in exactly ten minutes with garlic-laced rigatoni and a fresh garden salad. I also have two bottles of Italian Chardonnay from the southern vineyards chilling in the refrigerator."

Elsa's accent was upper class British � proper Queen's English taught to her in the finest finishing schools of London. Elsa herself, however, was not British. She was Nigerian and the blackest woman Jake had ever seen in person. Her skin was as dark as could be found on planet Earth, so dark that light didn't seem to reflect off it at all.

She was fifty years old and had lived most of her life in England where she'd been educated and had made a career of housekeeping and cooking for many of the movers, shakers, and entertainers of Britain through the sixties, seventies, and early eighties. She had been the live-in help for two members of the House of Lords, one member of the House of Commons, one member of Monty Python, and had even done a two-year stint working for Roger Waters of Pink Floyd before emigrating to the United States to be near her daughter and granddaughter who lived in Orange County. She had a bachelor's degree in literature and a degree from a prestigious British culinary school.

Jake had decided to hire a live-in housekeeper when it had become apparent that his thrice-weekly maid service was simply inadequate to keep up with the demands he placed upon them. He'd discovered Elsa through the same ad agency that Pauline had used to hire her domestic help and had interviewed her using much the same process that Mindy Snow had used to find hers � namely, he'd made her cook for him as part of the interview. She'd prepared a complete meal of Filet Mignon, marinated garlic mushrooms, rice pilaf, and salad, every bite of which had melted in Jake's mouth. The housekeeping questions had been almost secondary after that.

She had expressed a certain amount of trepidation at first about working for a musician as notorious as Jake until he'd assured her that nine out of ten of the stories she'd heard about him were nothing but fabrication on the part of the media.

"What about the story of you snorting cocaine from the buttocks of that common trollop?" she'd asked. "Is that a fabrication as well?"

"Uh... well... unfortunately that one is kind of true," he'd responded. "That was in my early days. You know how it is?"

"Actually I don't," she said. "I've never imbibed in cocaine use before, neither from a mirror or a buttock. I trust you would not engage in such behavior in my presence?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," he assured her.

"Then I guess you have yourself a housekeeper," she said. "If you'll have me, that is?"

Jake wanted her, and, like anyone in his employ who maintained loyalty to him and did not try to screw him, he made sure she was well compensated. Her base salary was $2500 a month. She was given the downstairs bedroom and bathroom as her own and she paid not a penny in rent. She was given a budget of $800 per month for household groceries, including her personal groceries but not including any alcohol except for wines to be served with dinner (the bar stock came out of a separate budget that was currently running in the vicinity of $1100 per month). Whatever she didn't spend of the budget was hers to keep � which wasn't very much right now, but when Jake left to go on tour for five or six months it would be considerable. Since she used her personal vehicle to go shopping and to take care of other household errand, Jake had also given her a gas station credit card to use for fueling it and he had agreed to pay for any repairs the vehicle might need. He also paid the one hundred and twelve dollar a month premium on her health insurance. Basically, except when Jake was entertaining, the entire downstairs portion of the house belonged to Elsa. She was particularly protective over the kitchen and everything in it.

In exchange for all this Elsa cooked dinner for him every weeknight and on the occasional weekend, she did all of the laundry, including folding it, ironing it, and putting it away, she kept the entire house clean enough to perform surgery in, and she oversaw the landscaping service that kept the grounds in good repair and the pool service that kept the pool and spa operating. She also kept her mouth firmly closed whenever a reporter tracked her down in the grocery store or the fish mongers or the butcher shop and wanted to squeeze details out of her about Jake and/or Rachel's private lives.

So far she was working out much better than Jake would have ever thought possible. She took her job very seriously and she was an amazing cook. She hardly blinked an eye at some of the more sordid things her employer engaged in. When Jake had given his housewarming party after all of his new furniture arrived she had served appetizers to the guests while walking through thick clouds of marijuana smoke. When she had walked in one day and found Jake screwing Rachel atop the pool table her only comment had been "Do you have any idea what that is going to do to the felt? Did it occur to either of you to put down a towel first?"

Now, she was wearing a simple pair of jeans and a white blouse and had an apron tied around her waist. Jake walked up behind her and took a good smell of her chicken Parmesan. "What can I have a bite of?" he asked her, reaching for the diced tomatoes she'd just added to the salad bowl.

She slapped his hand away before he could get within a foot of his target. "You'll have a bite of nothing until dinner," she scolded. "Who knows where your hands have been today."

"Mostly on mixing boards," he said, shifting his attention to the right. "How about some of this garlic bread? It looks like it just came out of the oven."

"One small piece," she said sternly, her brown eyes watching as he reached for one. "Smaller! Take the end piece!"

"Yes, Elsa," he said with a grin, taking the tiny end piece and putting the moist, garlic and oregano slathered bite into his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the burst of flavor across his taste buds. "Damn, Elsa," he said when he was done. "This is some good shit."

"You mean it is excellent garlic bread," she corrected. "I do not cook anything that should be referred to as 'shit'."

"Sorry," he said. He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. "It's excellent garlic bread. I can't wait to taste the rest. Is Rachel upstairs?"

"Yes," she said, smiling at his praise and his kiss. "She was down her mooching things a few minutes ago and then went up to change for dinner just before you came in."

"Groovy," Jake said, heading toward the staircase in the other room.

"Dinner in ten minutes," Elsa called after him. "So if you choose to engage in any sort of squalid activities please make them quick."

"Yes, Elsa," Jake dutifully replied.

He found Rachel in the bedroom, sitting at one of the desk chairs writing a letter to someone. She smiled as she saw him, standing up to walk across the room and greet him. She was wearing a pair of white shorts and a sleeveless blouse, her blonde hair flowing down around her shoulders. She kissed him, welcomed him home, and handed him a fresh rum and coke on the rocks � a drink she knew he was partial to after a long day of recording.

"Thanks, babe," Jake said, taking the drink and enjoying a long sip of it. "How was your day?"

"Just perfect," she said. "I went shopping this morning at Nordies and got this new outfit. Do you like it?" She gave a quick spin.

"It's very nice," he said, giving a little pat on her ass.

"Thank you," she said. "After I got home and ate lunch I worked out for an hour on the treadmill and then laid out by the pool for a bit. Then I went and visited Mom at the restaurant. I just got home about an hour ago."

Jake took another drink and then set the glass down. He asked a few questions about her mother, mostly because it seemed expected of him. As she chattered on he removed his wallet and the loose change from his pockets and then undressed to his underwear. He put on a fresh shirt and a pair of shorts. Rachel followed him around as he moved in and out of the walk-in closet, continuing to talk.

Rachel was pretty much living with him in all but officialdom at this point. She still maintained her apartment with Maureen (who was over to visit no less than three times a week), still paid rent on it (or rather, Jake did), but she hadn't actually slept there in months. Most of her clothes, makeup, and personal hygiene items were now kept in Jake's dresser drawers, bathroom drawers, and walk-in closet. She slept in his bed, ate meals prepared by Elsa, went shopping and to hair appointments with a credit card Jake had given her, and occasionally entertained her friends in the backyard or the entertainment room.

Jake did not feel she was taking advantage of him. He liked having her live there. The domestic cohabitation appealed to his sense of relationship and seemed to help keep his life in some sort of stable rhythm. He enjoyed having someone to talk to when he came home after a long day of recording. He liked having a companion to go out with to the movies, to social obligations, to the beach, or just to picnics up in Griffith Park. All of these were roles the groupies could not fill in his life, things that made him feel like an ordinary man instead of a celebrity.

For the most part Rachel filled this role well, without complaint, and without taking advantage of her position in his life. She doted on him at every opportunity, always making sure she was well dressed and well made up for him. She didn't abuse his hospitality in any way, had never gone on a spending spree with his credit card, had never tried to get more out of him than what he'd given her. And she absolutely loved sex, had, in fact, become almost obsessed with it since their first session after the pre-Grammy party.

"I never knew sex could be this good," she'd confessed to him one night after a particularly amorous session on the entertainment room couch. They had been drunk that night, having just returned from the housewarming party for Matt's new house in San Juan Capistrano.

"There is a lot to be said for sex," Jake had replied, his head resting on her stomach, the taste of her juices still strong in his mouth.

"I always thought it was overrated," she said. "I mean, I did it before I met you but I never thought it was anything to write home about. Not that I had a lot of experience or anything. My first time was when I was twenty."

"Twenty?" he asked, surprised.

She giggled. "Yeah. I was real good at putting my boyfriends off when I was in high school and my first year of college. I'd let them feel my tits, put their fingers in my panties, sometimes, when they got really desperate, I'd jack them off. I knew I was good looking and they all wanted to be with me so it was easy to get away with putting them off for months, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Jake said, remembering how long she'd made him wait. "You were a cock tease."

"Exactly," she said, laughing. "And I was good at it too. I escaped from high school with my cherry intact. It wasn't until I met Stan that I finally went all the way."

Stan was the history major she'd been dating � and quite obviously in love with � when he'd first started coming into the restaurant where she worked. "He was your first?"

"Yeah," she said, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. "I really liked Stan. After we dated about three months or so I gave it up to him one night." She giggled. "He shot off as soon as he touched my pussy with his dick. We tried again a little later and he actually got it inside that time but once he broke my cherry he shot off again before he could even start to move. That was pretty much it for that night, which was probably a good thing since I was really sore."

"Wow," Jake said, feeling pity for the poor bastard. "What about later? He got better, didn't he?"

"Well... he started lasting a little longer," she said. "I won't say it was better or anything. I mean... it felt okay but I never came with him. I never came with anyone before until you."

"Not even with the doc?" Jake asked, referring to her last boyfriend � the one Jake had basically stolen her from. "All that studying of anatomy and nerve paths didn't give him an edge?"

This produced another giggle. "I was the first live girl he'd ever gotten his hands on. He came in his pants the first time I let him touch my bare boobs. When we did start doing it he never lasted more than a minute."

"Not even after practice?" Jake asked.

"He didn't get a chance to practice very much. We only did it three times before I broke up with him."

"Three times?" Jake marveled, recalling that she and the doc had been together almost five months. Assuming she'd made him wait two months before giving it up the first time that meant they'd had sex about once a month. Once a month! This was inconceivable to Jake. It was also quite a contrast to the Rachel he knew. Rarely did a twenty-four hour period go by in which they weren't at each other at least once. Many times they did it twice, even three times a day. Rachel, who displayed a hunger for orgasms that seemed like an addiction at times, was the one who initiated most of these sessions. She had even learned to give a blowjob to completion without throwing up or even gagging, although it was obvious she still had no great love of this particular act.

There were a few sour spots to the relationship, however � things that Jake wasn't quite sure how to deal with or even if they were something he needed to deal with.

Rachel had dropped out of school in the middle of the last semester, abruptly abandoning twelve units of classes at one of the most prestigious public universities in the nation. Her reasoning for this was sound enough. It was no longer possible for her to walk the campus without being constantly accosted by reporters asking her about Jake and fellow students who wanted to either try to score free concert tickets, meet Jake and/or Matt, or who wanted to know how often Jake beat her and if she needed any help. Two of her instructors had actually given her cards for the local chapter of WEAVE � Women Escaping A Violent Environment. All of this attention made it impossible for her to learn anything and tended to distract both the students and staff in all of her classes. And so, she'd left. She hadn't talked to Jake about this beforehand, she just did it and explained herself later. Nor did she seem to have any regrets about it.

"I can always go back later when things mellow out," she said. And that had pretty much closed the subject.

Jake didn't really care whether or not she went to school. That was her decision to make. What bothered him was how easily she'd jumped off the track that led to her life's ambition � to teach � without so much as a backward glance. She had done this just so she could continue to date him. As a man who had once chosen his career over a woman he loved � who had never even considered doing otherwise � Rachel's quick decision disturbed him. Did she care about her ambitions so little? Or did she care about him so much? Either way he wasn't sure he liked the answer.

The depth of Rachel's feelings for him and the contrast of his feelings for her was another sour spot � one he'd spent a lot of time thinking about lately. About two months ago Rachel began tossing the L-word around. At first it was just casual use, a giggling 'I love you' during particularly good sex or while laughing together, something he barely even noticed. Gradually, however, both the frequency and the depth of this expression increased to the point she was saying it every time he kissed her goodbye or goodnight, every time they talked on the telephone, every time they finished having sex. She gazed into his eyes sometimes and proclaimed this love at the dinner table, or while they sat on the couch together, or while they sipped drinks in the back of a limo on the way somewhere.

Jake always felt awkward at these moments, unsure just what to say. He did not tell her he loved her in return because he knew it wasn't true. He liked her as a person, as a conversationalist. He lusted after her body in a sexual manner. He enjoyed her company, enjoyed having her live with him and be his girlfriend. But love? No, not even close.

Jake had been in romantic love with a woman two and a half times before in his life. The first had been Michelle Borrows, who had given him the ultimatum to either quit music and become a respectable member of society or lose her (and who had then gone on to write her journal of provocative falsehoods and half-truths years later). The second had been Angelina Hadley, the waitress he'd worked with in Hollywood while recording the first Intemperance album. He had last seen her as he'd stepped onto the bus for the first tour where he'd gotten lost in the haze of gross intoxication and an endless supply of groupies willing to do any kinky thing with him. He'd never found the courage to call her, write her, or talk to her again. The last he'd heard she had gotten into drugs and prostitution and was doing some time in the LA County jail. The half-love was Mindy Snow, the actress who had played the pious, churchgoing daughter on the long-running family television show The Slow Lane. He had been well on his way to falling in love with her when he discovered that she was only dating him to break out of the good-girl image she had been saddled with.

Jake knew what love felt like, knew that there was no mistaking the sensation for something else, knew that if you had to ask yourself if you were in love, the answer was generally 'no'. He did not love Rachel and was not going to say he loved her just to appease her. That path led to nothing but trouble.

They arrived downstairs for dinner exactly on time, just as Elsa finished putting everything on the table. Elsa served them each a plate with chicken Parmesan smothered in homemade pasta sauce and melted cheese with garlic bread and rigatoni on the side. In separate bowls she served her fresh salad with Italian dressing. She gave each of them a glass of chilled Chardonnay and left the opened bottle in the center of the table. Neither Jake nor Rachel asked Elsa to join them. They had long since learned that she absolutely refused to break bread with her employer or his guests.

"It's just not proper decorum," she'd declared on multiple occasions.

The food was as delicious as everything she cooked. Jake ate two helpings of everything and Rachel ate at least a helping and a half.

"That's at least another twenty minutes on the treadmill tomorrow," Rachel declared when she finally pushed her plate away.

While Elsa cleaned up dinner and did her final spot-check of the house for the evening, Jake and Rachel went out to the balcony outside the master suite. They polished off the second bottle of wine and enjoyed the warmth of the evening while looking out over the city lights of Los Angeles.

"You want to take a swim?" Rachel asked when the last of the wine was gone.

"Sure," Jake said, standing. "Let's do it."

They went back in the bedroom and quickly stripped naked. They put on robes and then went back out onto the balcony and down the stairs to the backyard. The security lights came on, flooding every inch of the backyard with bright, sterile light. Jake went to a control panel near the living room entrance, punched in a code, and deactivated everything except the swimming pool lights. By the time he finished this task Rachel was already in the pool, her smooth, naked form gliding just under the surface.

Jake dropped his robe on one of the redwood loungers and walked naked over to the diving board. He mounted it, took four steps and a jump, and launched himself into the air, flattening his body out and diving into the pool with hardly a splash. The water was eighty-one degrees, just a few degrees warmer than the air, and pleasantly refreshing. He swam along the bottom and surfaced at the shallow end, taking a few breaths.

"Nice dive," Rachel said, paddling over to him.

"Yeah," Jake said. "I was almost on the Olympic diving team once but I decided to be a dirtbag musician instead."

"I think you chose wisely," she said, sliding her wet nakedness against him, her breasts rubbing against his chest.

He slid his hands up and down her back, relishing the sensation of her smooth skin beneath his fingertips. They kissed, gently at first but quickly heating up to long, luxuriant, open mouth kisses with lots of tongue. Her nipples hardened against his chest and his manhood hardened against her stomach. She reached down and began to caress it, her hand soft and gentle, bringing it up to its full potential.

"Fuck me, Jake," she whispered in his ear. "Fuck me right here in the pool." She squirmed her body upward, trying to line his erection up with her opening.

"Sit on the edge of the pool," Jake said, twisting his body away so she couldn't make the connection. "I'll eat you out."

"I don't want to be eaten right now," she said, nibbling on his ear, letting her tongue bath the lobe with saliva. "I want to be fucked. I want to be fucked hard."

"Let's go back upstairs then," he said.

"I want to do it here, Jake," she said, pleadingly. "Put it in me."

"I don't have a rubber on me," he said. "We need to go back upstairs if you want to fuck, or you'll have to wait until I run up there and come back down."

Her hands tightened on his back. Her face pulled back from him. Anger was in her eyes. "Why do you need a rubber every goddamn time we make love?" she asked. "I'm on the pill, Jake. I've told you that a thousand times!"

"And I've told you a thousand times, it's for your protection. I've been with a lot of women."

"You're lying to me," she said. "I've always been honest with you and you're lying to my face right now, Jake."

"What are you talking about?" he demanded, perhaps a little too strongly.

"We've been together more than six months now," she said. "You haven't been with any other women in all that time. You're safe and both of us know it."

"Rachel," he said, feeling his erection wilting as if it had been burned, "I think maybe you're..."

"You don't trust me, Jake," she said. "You think I'm trying to get pregnant, don't you?"

He was momentarily speechless. She had never really snapped at him like this before. The most serious argument they'd ever had had been over who got to eat the last piece of Elsa's filet mignon. And the fact that she'd hit the nail right on the head with her accusation didn't help his state of mind.

"You do think that, don't you?" she asked, hurt in her eyes. She let go of him and drifted a few feet backward in the pool.

"Rachel, hon," he said. "What's going on here? Why are you suddenly flipping out about this?"

"I just want to make love to you without those damn rubbers, Jake," she said, tears running from her eyes now. "I want to feel you inside of me, not a bunch of latex."

"You never complained about it before," he said. "I seem to recall making you scream out to Jesus a few times while I've been plowing you with a rubber on."

She sighed. "You don't understand, Jake, do you? I'm not saying you're bad in bed. You're very good in bed, the best I've ever had. But I want to feel it all! I want to feel you inside of me."

"Rachel, I told you..."

"I know," she said. "You're doing it for my protection. I've heard that bullshit ever since the first time. It's a lie, Jake. It's a goddamned lie and you know it. You think I'm trying to get pregnant. I've told you all this time I'm on the pill, you've even seen my pill case, you've seen me taking them every morning, and you still think I'm trying to trap you."

"I don't think that at all," he said, his eyes not meeting hers.

"Right," she said disgustedly. She paddled over to the edge of the pool and climbed out.

"Where are you going?" Jake asked her.

"I think I'll go sleep at home tonight," she said, grabbing her robe off the chair.

"At home?" he asked. "You mean... at home?"

"Yeah," she said. "You know? The apartment you won't let me give up? That home. I guess I see now why you keep paying for it for me."

She trudged up the stairs and went in through the bedroom balcony door. Jake didn't follow her. He swam around in the pool for a few minutes, his emotions in turmoil.

She was right about everything. He couldn't even begin to deny it to himself. He wasn't worried about giving her any sexually transmitted diseases, nor was he worried about catching any from her. He was worried that she would stop taking her pills or that she already had and that she would get pregnant. And he wasn't continuing to pay for her apartment because he was worried about the burden that would be placed on Maureen, her roommate. He was doing it so she could not claim official co-habitation when (if, his mind corrected) things went sour with her. He did these things as a matter of course, with the cynicism of a man who knew that almost everyone in the world wanted something from him. It had never occurred to him that Rachel wouldn't understand, that his actions would seem offensive to her. Didn't she know the position he was in? Couldn't she appreciate that?

He climbed out of the pool after about fifteen minutes, put on his robe, reactivated the security lights, and then went up the stairs to the balcony. When he entered the bedroom Rachel was not in there. Nor was she anywhere else in the house. She really had gone home.

When he returned from the recording studio the next evening she was there waiting for him, once again dressed in a fashionable and sexy outfit, once again with a drink in her hand. She apologized for being such a bitch to him, blaming it on her approaching period, and promised she would try not to ever do such a thing again. He accepted her apology a little guiltily but offered none of his own.

The sex they had that night was among the best they'd ever shared. Jake wore a condom during it and Rachel did not complain about it.

The routine went on. Six days a week Jake went to the recording studio and continued the process of mixing and overdubbing the eleven tracks that would appear on It's In The Book. Disagreements between Jake, Matt, and Nerdly continued to erupt on pretty much every track they put together, usually falling along the same battle lines that had already been drawn � Matt the traditionalist, Nerdly the progressive, Jake somewhere in between. Sometimes he came down on Matt's side of the argument and sometimes he came down on Nerdly's. Sometimes both Nerdly and Matt got mad at him for trying to find a middle ground.

When he came home each night Rachel would always have a drink waiting for him and Elsa would always have dinner waiting. On Saturday nights Jake would usually take Rachel out to a nice restaurant and then to a club for dancing. On Sundays they would got to the beach or up to Griffith Park or on a shopping excursion to Beverly Hills. They had sex at night, sometimes in the morning, and at least twice a day on Sundays. She never tried to get him to go bareback anymore, never even made any snide remarks if he had to interrupt a spontaneous session in order to go retrieve a condom from his nearest convenient stash of them. She continued to tell Jake she loved him on a regular basis and he continued to not return the sentiment because it continued to not be true. Things seemed the same as they had always been but at the same time it seemed some fundamental change had taken place in their relationship, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Whenever he started to worry too much about this a couple of drinks would usually squash the worry flat and drive it back into the corner of his brain somewhere where he didn't have to think about it.

On August 16, 1987, the recording process finally came to a merciful end. All eleven tracks were now mixed, overdubbed, processed, and on a master recording ready to be put into mass production whenever National Records deemed it the right time for the album to be released. They had no plans to do this for at least another month, maybe longer. Although their previous album, Balance Of Power, had fallen from the number one position some weeks before it was still sitting firmly in the top ten and radio stations all over the country were still playing the hell out of the songs on it. The album had now gone four times platinum, the best selling of all the Intemperance albums so far.

What this all meant was that until it was time to start putting the tour together the band had absolutely nothing to do and no obligations to fulfill.

"Vacation time," Matt said as they left the recording studio for the last time. "You still up for Cabo with me, Jake?"

"Hell yeah," Jake said. "I'm ready to try out this whole fishing thing." Jake had been promising Matt ever since the end of the last tour that he would go to Cabo San Lucas with him in order to sample the lifestyle there and to engage in what was reputedly the best sport fishing in the free world.

"That's my bitch," Matt said. "I'll start making the arrangements tonight. You up for private?"

"It's the only way to fly," Jake said. "Just tell me what I owe you and I'm in."

Matt called him that night while he and Rachel were sitting out in the hot tub, soaking and enjoying a bottle of Cabernet. Elsa brought him the cordless phone, not so much as batting an eye at their nudity.

Rachel watched his conversation, quickly gathering that he was talking about going on a trip somewhere.

"August 25 through the September 3?" Jake asked. "Sounds good to me. Are we leaving from Van Nuys?" A pause. "Bitchin. So I need to be there at nine o'clock in the morning at General Aviation? I can do that. Where we staying?" Another pause. "No shit? They got all the comforts of home there? Good. So what are the damages gonna be?" Another pause. "Eighteen grand? Sounds doable. Just have your guy get an exact amount for me and I'll have Jill wire it into your account." They passed a few more pleasantries with each other and then, in the way of men the world over, ended the conversation now that the information required had been passed. Jake clicked the off button on the phone and tossed it over onto the table next to the spa.

Rachel looked at him for a moment and then said softly, "Going on a trip?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm finally going fishing with Matt in Cabo San Lucas. He's been trying to get me there ever since Sammy Hagar first told him about the place."

"I see," she said, expressionless. "And... uh... am I staying here?"

"Well... yeah, it's kind of a guy's trip, you know," he told her. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it earlier. We've just been so busy trying to finish up the album these past few weeks and all. It slipped my mind."

"That's okay," she said, taking a large sip of her wine. "I'm sure I'll find something to do while you're gone."

"Look, babe," he said, "I'm really sorry I didn't tell you about it and I'm sorry you can't go. I'd take you if I thought you'd have a good time but we're just going to be fishing out on a boat the whole week."

"I understand."

"I have an idea," he said, suddenly struck by inspiration. "Why don't we take a little trip of our own before I leave? I'm on vacation now. You don't have anything else to do. Where do you want to go? I'll take you anywhere in the world."

"Really?" she asked.

"Really," he told her. "You name the place and I'll make it happen. We'll leave tomorrow morning."

This had the effect he'd intended on her. She was overwhelmed and quickly forgot about the trip to Cabo without her. Or at least it seemed that way. "I've uh... never been to Yellowstone Park before," she said meekly. "I've always wanted to see the bears and the geysers."

He smiled at her. "Camping or deluxe accommodations?" he asked.

"We could go camping if you want," she said doubtfully, "but I've never been camping before."

"Screw camping then," he said. He leaned forward and kissed her. "I promise you that tomorrow night you'll be sleeping in deluxe accommodations in or around Yellowstone National Park."

It was a promise he was easily able to keep. Twenty minutes on the phone with a luxury travel agent he'd done business with in the past and he had a complete week's vacation booked, including airfare, hotel rooms, and vehicle rental. The next morning they boarded a chartered twin-prop aircraft from Van Nuys and flew to Cody, Wyoming. The spent the next three days exploring Yellowstone National Park in a rented Jeep. They then boarded another chartered aircraft and flew to Kalispell, Montana and spent another three days exploring Glacier National Park in another Jeep.

They had a very good time, not arguing or bickering even once. They ran into no paparazzi or other forms of media hound. Only a dozen or so people even recognized the two of them and approached Jake for an autograph. They flew home on August 24. The next day Jake boarded a private Leer with Matt and they took off for Cabo San Lucas on the tip of Mexico's Baja Peninsula.

Jake liked Cabo, but not as much as Matt and Sammy Hagar. It was a starkly beautiful place, one of the few places on Earth where the desert met the open ocean. The rock formations at Land's End on the very tip of the peninsula were a true testament to the beauty of nature. However, for all of Cabo's splendor, it was a desert and it was hotter than hell the entire time they were there. The temperature tended to hover around the mid-nineties during the day and only dipped six or seven degrees when they went out on the ocean.

Jake also liked the deep-sea fishing they did five of the seven days they were there. Again, however, he didn't like it quite as much as Matt. It was fun to reel in a marlin that weighed eighty or ninety pounds, but it was exhausting work, the sort of thing Jake preferred to do a couple of times a year instead of at every available opportunity like Matt.

What Jake did love about the trip was the sea. He fell in love with the ocean on the trip and the idea of going out on the open ocean in a boat, out beyond the sight of any land, was something he knew by the end of the first day that he wanted to pursue as a hobby in some way. The boat that Matt had chartered for them was a fifty footer with twin diesel engines. It was crewed by three Mexican men � a captain, a first mate, and a fishing assistant � all of whom had at least ten years of experience with open ocean vessels and navigation. All three spoke flawless English and Jake spent a good portion of each trip on the bridge, plying the captain for every bit of information he could get out of him about how the boat worked, what kind of horsepower it generated, how the navigation and radio equipment worked. The captain, delighted that Jake was showing an interest (Matt had never given a rat's ass about the hows and whys of the boat), gave Jake a crash course in small vessel operation and navigation, even showing him his charts and explaining the various features on them.

The hotel they stayed in was the best available on the peninsula. They each had a private suite at the very top, complete with in-room hot tubs, wet bars, sitting rooms, and luxury bedrooms with butler service. Every night after coming in from their fishing trips, showering, and napping away the ten to fifteen beers they'd consumed on the boat, they hit the bars of Cabo, hopping from one to the other, getting outrageously drunk.

Most of the tourists in Cabo � which had yet to be fully discovered as a popular tourist destination at this point in its history � were men and women in their late forties to early seventies, golfers and sport fishermen from the western United States for the most part. Very few people recognized the shaggy-haired youngsters in their midst as famous rock stars. That was just fine with Jake, who relished namelessness like other men relished power or money. Matt, on the other hand, always managed to find some young girl somewhere who knew who he was and hook up with her for the evening.

Jake stayed away from the women, mostly because he was currently spoken for but also because there were very few to choose from. On their fifth day, a day when they had no fishing planned, he and Matt caught a water taxi out to one of the beaches at Land's End. The beach was unique in that it had water on both the east and the west side. On the east side was the placid water of the Sea of Cortez where a few dozen tourists were swimming, snorkeling, or just wading in the warm water. On the west side was the turbulent Pacific Ocean where breakers that had rolled all the way from New Zealand smashed against the rocks with a furious violence that made swimming or wading a lethal activity.

Jake and Matt set up their loungers facing the swimmers on the east side and commenced drinking margaritas that were sold for fifty cents apiece by roving cocktail servers. Within an hour they were quite drunk and Jake's better judgment was hiding in its hole. Soon after that, Matt disappeared for a bit and returned with two bikini-clad young women in tow.

"Jake!" he said, plopping down in his lounger. "This is Rose and Miranda. I met 'em by the shitter over there. They're cousins and they were both just dying to meet us."

"Hi, Rose and Miranda," Jake said dutifully, raising his drink to them. Rose was a bleach blonde with large breasts wearing a bikini that stretched even the liberal standards of Cabo. Miranda was a freckled redhead with medium breasts. Her bikini was a bit more conservative. Both looked at the two rock stars as if they were gods right down from the heavens. "It's nice to meet you."

"He wasn't just messin' with us," Rose said to her cousin. "He really is Matt Tisdale. And this really is Jake Kingsley."

"Yeah," said Miranda, starting to actually tremble a little now. "This is, like, so cool!"

"Hey, Taco!" Matt yelled to the nearest waiter (whose name was not Taco). "Grab a couple of them fuckin' chairs for these chicks here and then bring us another round of drinks!"

The waiter who was not Taco did as he was told (and hopefully, Jake thought, did not secrete any bodily substances into their drinks) and the two girls sat down next to them. They went through the predicable period of oh-my-gods and it's-really-yous before settling down enough to hold a semi-coherent conversation. The girls told them that they were from Tucson, Arizona, had grown up together, and were currently attending the University of Arizona together. Their respective parents (Miranda's mom and Rose's dad were brother and sister) were semi-wealthy Arizonians who were treating their B-student children to a Mexican Riviera vacation for the end of the summer. It was their last day here and the parents in question were out on a golf course somewhere.

"So you two are pretty close then, huh?" Jake asked, finding himself intrigued by the fact that they were nineteen-year-old cousins.

"We're almost like sisters!" Rose proclaimed.

"That's fuckin' hot," Matt said. "You guys ever dyke out together?"

"Jesus Christ," Jake chuckled, lighting a cigarette. He took another drink of his margarita and wondered if he should be feeling guilty about this.

"Well... no, we never did that," Miranda giggled. "We've been on a lot of double dates to frat parties though."

"Oh yes," Rose said. "We're very popular on Friday nights."

"You're our kind of sluts," Matt said, putting his arm around Rose, who was sitting next to him. "Let's have another drink."

Rose rubbed her shoulder suggestively against him. "Let's do it," she said.

They had a few more drinks and soon Miranda had scooted her lounger next to Jake's. She was playing with the hairs on his arm and flirting quite brazenly. Jake knew that this was not a real good idea but the alcohol in his bloodstream kept him from putting a stop to it. He had always had a special place in the part of his brain that controlled lust that was a sucker for natural redheads. He found himself wondering if her pubic hair was that natural red color too. Thoughts of Rachel were spinning around in his head but he found himself ignoring them. After all, has in a different country, wasn't he? And it had been a long time since he'd allowed flirtation from a groupie to progress to this point. And besides, it had been almost six days since he'd last been laid. He hadn't even whacked off since leaving Los Angeles. No one would ever know, would they?

Before long he and Miranda were chest deep in the Sea of Cortez, splashing and wrestling with each other. Her bikini-clad breasts bounced before his eyes and her smooth, nineteen-year-old skin rubbed against his in a most pleasant manner. Soon they were kissing each other, their tongues probing in and out of each other's mouths. Miranda's hands dropped down and began feeling Jake's erection, first from the outside of his shorts and then from the inside. His finger worked its way beneath the crotch of her bikini bottoms and he brought her to a quick, sharp orgasm right there twenty yards from the beach.

"I've never been this hot before, Jake," Miranda told him, kissing his cheeks, his ears, his lips. "Can you show me your hotel room?"

"Yeah," he said, biting at her ear lobe. "I think that's a real good idea."

They caught a water taxi back to the town and walked three blocks to the hotel. They went up the elevator and within seconds of going through the door to Jake's suite, his shorts were down and his rigid penis was in Miranda's sucking mouth.

"Yeah," he said, running his fingers through her still-damp red hair. "Now that's a fuckin' blowjob."

She sucked him until he shot off in her mouth, swallowing every drop and then licking him clean. He then laid her down on the bed and stripped her, admiring the nest of copper colored hair between her legs and the sparse array of freckles on her breasts. He licked and suckled her breasts, tonguing her nipples until she was moaning in pleasure. He then kissed his way across her freckled stomach, eventually making his way to her swollen vaginal lips. He dove into her, licking and slurping at her, his only thought of Rachel being that Miranda tasted different, a little saltier.

Miranda came once, twice, and then three times under the assault of his tongue. While she was still panting out the effects of number three he quickly retrieved his wallet and pulled out one of the condoms he always kept in there. He sheathed his weapon and then climbed on the bed, pushing Miranda's legs as far back as they could go and then lining up with his target.

"Yeah, Jake," she panted, her hands running up and down his back. "Do it to me. Fuck me!"

He fucked her, sinking into her body in one fluid stroke. He felt guilty as he drove himself home, knowing that he was cheating on Rachel, but the guilt only served to enhance the situation, to make it seem more powerful and pleasurable then it actually was.

What Jake didn't know about his encounter with Miranda was that it wasn't as secret as he thought and that being in a different country didn't really matter. When Matt had booked the trip with his travel agency one of the clerks in there had made note of the fact that Jake Kingsley appeared on the reservations but that Rachel Madison � who she knew from the entertainment magazines was currently dating the singer � did not.

This particular travel agency was one that often booked high-priced vacations for famous people. This particular clerk had earned more than one envelope full of money in her career by tipping off certain photographers and entertainment reporters when someone famous was taking a trip. Recognizing potentially juicy gossip when she saw it, she phoned her favorite contact, who just happened to work for the American Watcher tabloid. She gave the names, dates, accommodations, and anything else her contact wanted to know about the upcoming trip. She was thanked for her service and promised two hundred dollars for the information. Within an hour Paul Peterson � the independent celebrity photographer who had taken the now-infamous shots of Jake and Mindy Snow naked on a boat � got a call and was offered an all-expenses paid trip to Cabo San Lucas with premium payment if he got pictures of Jake Kingsley in a compromising position. Peterson took the job.

When Jake and Matt landed in the airport on their first day, Peterson was already there, waiting for him. He staked out the two musicians relentlessly, going everywhere they went except for onto the deep sea fishing boat. He got plenty of shots of Matt with a variety of women but nobody gave a shit about those. He was dismayed and a little frustrated when Jake stayed away from women for the first four days of the trip. He had gone out to bars and clubs, had even been down on the beach on the first day, but the only women who he got anywhere near were those few and far betweens who asked him for his autograph.

Patience and diligence paid off, however. On day five he hit his gold mine. While Jake was cavorting on the sand and in the beach with the redheaded slut, Paul was nearby with his ultra-zoom telephoto lens, shooting rolls and rolls of film of everything that transpired.

Nobody warned Jake. Pauline tried. She had been contacted by an American Watcher reporter asking for 'Mr. Kingsley's comments on the matter' while Jake was flying home but she was unable to get hold of him before it was too late.

A limo dropped him off in front of his house at 3:00 PM on the afternoon of September 3. He walked in the house and found Rachel sitting at the dining room table, her eyes swollen, her mascara smeared, and numb fury in her eyes. Jake immediately knew something bad had happened.

"What's the matter, babe?" he asked her gently, already starting to fear the worst.

"I ran into a reporter," she said. "Someone who works for American Watcher."

"Oh?" Jake said, his fear starting to ratchet up a few notches.

"I went out to go shopping," she said. "I was going to find something nice to wear for you when you came home. Apparently he'd followed me and came up to me as I was getting out of my car."

"What... uh... did he want?" Jake asked. "The usual stuff?"

"No," she said. "Not the usual stuff." She picked up a brown, legal-sized envelope that was sitting on the table before her. "He showed me these," she said, "and he wanted to know what my reaction to them was."

Jake licked his lips and took the envelope from her. He opened it. Inside were more than a dozen 4x6 glossy pictures that featured he and Miranda on the beach. Two of them were of them lying next to each other in the loungers, smiling. The rest were of the two of them cavorting in the water, including several shots where Jake's tongue was firmly in Miranda's mouth.

"Oh my God," Jake said, feeling adrenaline go shooting through his body. He was busted. Totally and completely busted. It was a new experience for him. He had never been caught cheating before � at least not in such a manner as this. He didn't know what to say, what to do. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "This isn't what it looks like."

"It isn't?" she said, staring at him. "It looks like you've got your tongue in some other woman's mouth, that you're feeling her tits, that you're groping her under the water. Are you saying that's not what happened?"

Okay, his mind said, that was a pretty lame thing to say. "Look, hon," he said. "I was drunk on the beach and Matt dragged these two women over. We flirted a little bit and things went kind of far."

"Kind of far?" she asked. "The reporter told me that you and that bitch went back to your hotel room together and that she didn't come back out for three hours. Is that what you call a little far?"

Deeper and deeper, his mind informed him. "Okay," he said. "I guess it was a lot far. I screwed up, Rachel. I was drunk and I did something I shouldn't have done. I'm sorry."

She was shaking her head, her eyes continuing to glare at him. "Did you ever once think of me while you were doing that?" she asked.

"Hon, I had too much to drink that day. I hardly even remember what happened."

She sighed, leaning back in her chair for a moment. A few tears ran down her face. "So you didn't think of me," she said. "I don't know what would be worse, knowing that you didn't give me a thought while you were fucking some other woman or knowing that you did give me a thought and did it anyway. Why did you do it, Jake? Haven't I been keeping you satisfied?"

"Yes, Rachel," he said. "You keep me very satisfied. That girl didn't mean anything to me. I just... gave into temptation. I was wrong and I've been feeling guilty ever since."

She sat back up again. "And just like that, you think I should get over it?"

"Uh... no, I didn't say that. I'm just trying to explain what my state of mind was."

"I know what your state of mind was," she said. "You didn't give a shit about me. You didn't care enough to invite me along on your trip and once you were there you didn't give enough of a shit to give me the common courtesy of not fucking some slutty bitch!"

"Rachel, it's not like that!" he said.

"It is like that, Jake. Don't even try to deny it. You know, I might've been able to forgive this eventually if I was a real girlfriend, if I thought this relationship was something other than a convenience to you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Are you saying you don't know?" she asked. "You're a rich rock star who has money falling out of your ass and you just hire someone when you need a service performed. You need help managing your money and your finances so you hire an accountant. You need help around you new house so you hire Elsa to take care of it for you. You pay well and you treat your help nice and you expect you can get away with anything because of that."

"What do Elsa and Jill have to do with this?" Jake asked.

"You needed a girlfriend," she said. "You told me a hundred times you like being in a relationship with a woman, that you don't like a bunch of meaningless sluts you only see for an hour and whose names you don't even remember you fuck them."

"That's all true," Jake said. "That girl meant nothing to me."

"I'm sure she didn't," Rachel said. "But you're missing my point. You needed a girlfriend so you did the same thing you did when you needed and accountant or housekeeper. You hired me for the job."

"Hired you?" he asked. "That's insane!"

"Is it? You give me a credit card and tell me to go charge to my heart's content. You take me on trips and let me live in your house and eat your food. All I have to do in return is be nice to you and cuddle with you and fuck you and serve you drinks when you get home. I'm sure a lot of women would kill for the job but I'm not one of them. I loved you, Jake, and you've been treating me like one of your servants. You treat me well, there's no denying that, but you won't make love to me without a condom, you won't let me give up my apartment, you won't take me with you on your trip to Mexico, and you don't even care enough about me to resist other women when you're gone for a week."

She stood up and reached into her jeans pocket. She pulled out the credit card he'd given her and threw it on the table. "I quit, Jake. Consider this my resignation."

"Rachel..." he started, but was unable to think of anything else to say.

"I've already packed up my stuff and put it in my car. Everything I've bought using that card is still upstairs. Have a good life, Jake."

"Rachel..." he said again, but she was already walking out. With tears streaming down her face she went out the door and walked purposefully to the garage. Jake didn't go after her. A moment later her Cabriolet backed out and went down the driveway to the street, disappearing from sight.

Los Angeles, California

September 18, 1987

10:30 AM

Jake sat shirtless in one of the chairs adjacent to the wet bar out on his patio. Sitting on the bar next to him was an ashtray that contained half a dozen cigarette butts and half of a joint he'd lit earlier. There was also a potent rum and coke sitting there � his third of the day even though it was only 10:30 in the morning. Sitting next to the drink was a notebook and a pen he was using to transcribe lyrics from his head onto paper. In his lap was the battered Fender six-string he used to compose music with. He had been working on a new song for more than an hour now, not because he had a deadline to meet but simply because the art of composition was something he enjoyed doing, something that soothed his brain and his soul.

He lit a fresh cigarette, took a few drags off it, and then set it down in the ashtray. He swigged a little more of his latest drink and then picked up the guitar pick. He strummed out the rhythm he'd come up with and then sang the chorus of his song � the first part he'd composed.

She cut me loose, she's out the door

She made it very clear that she don't want me anymore

But I'll survive, I always do

It won't be long, baby, 'til I find somebody new

She cut me loose, she stopped the game

Haven't seen her since, does she curse my very name?

But life goes on, that's what they say

I'll just have another drink and those feelings go away

She cut me loose

He stopped playing and took another drag from his smoke. "It's good," he mumbled. "Maybe a little too good."

The lyrics he was composing were, of course, more than a little autobiographical. It had been just over two weeks since Rachel had thrown the credit card down on the table and walked out the door � had 'cut him loose', as it were. The lyrics were a direct reflection of his thoughts and feelings since then. He hadn't seen her since the break-up, nor had he heard from her. He thought it very likely that she was indeed cursing his very name.

The National Watcher article and photographs had come out four days after Rachel had left. Rachel's only comment to the reporter who'd done the story was "Jake and I are no longer seeing each other and that's all I have to say". Since then various other entertainment tabloids, magazines, and television shows had tried to interview her � no doubt hoping for a lurid story about how she was regularly beaten and raped � but her only quotes had been "no comment", no matter what they asked. So at least she wasn't being vindictive in the manner of Michelle Rourke (formerly Borrows).

Jake had finally allowed Elsa to clean out his closets and remove all of the expensive clothing Rachel had purchased while they were together. Most were being donated to various charities to be re-sold in thrift stores although a few of the outfits Elsa had kept and given to her granddaughter, who was sixteen and about Rachel's size. Seeing the half-empty closet and the empty drawers had helped convince Jake that she really wasn't coming back, that she really didn't 'want him anymore'.

This concept had been something he had been unable to accept at first. He was Jake Kingsley, millionaire, rock god, and famous celebrity. Women did not break up with Jake Kingsley. Jake Kingsley broke up with them. What woman in her right mind would walk away from the lifestyle he'd been providing Rachel with? She had been pissed off about his public indiscretion in Mexico, that was true, but once she got over that she would forgive and then come back, wouldn't she? Wouldn't she?

She didn't. Once Jake came to accept that fact he was forced to do a little self-examination � a post-mortem of the relationship if you will � and he was shocked to discover that Rachel had been right. He had treated her like an employee, he had, in effect, hired himself a girlfriend when he needed that particular service in his life. The most damning evidence of this realization came from the fact that he didn't miss Rachel after she was gone. He missed the companionship she'd represented, he missed having someone to talk to, someone to accompany him the places he wanted to go, someone to sleep in his bed with him at night, but he didn't miss Rachel the person. Any woman could have filled the role of his girlfriend as long as she was nice, attractive, and reasonably good at conversation. If he hadn't found Rachel he would have found someone else.

It was this epiphany that bothered him more than the actual break-up, more than the hole in his life her departure represented. He had treated a woman badly, not on purpose, but that hardly mattered to the woman in question. Jake was blessed, or cursed if you looked at it a different way, with a great deal of empathy for other people. He knew everyone had their own views and perceptions of things and he could usually put himself in their shoes with little effort. Once he did that with Rachel he was actually ashamed of himself and more than a little surprised that she'd put up with his shit for as long as she had.

And so, since the break-up and the loss of the domestic tranquility that had gone with the relationship, Jake had been staying home as much as possible. He started drinking usually before 10:00 AM each morning and kept it up throughout the day. He never became shitfaced drunk, but he maintained a strong buzz that, as his lyrics suggested, made 'those feelings go away'.

He puffed his cigarette again and then strummed out the opening of the song. Now that the chorus was pretty much nailed down it was time to start working on the verses. He was just getting the first line together when Elsa appeared at his side, holding the cordless phone in her hands.

"It's Mr. Tisdale for you, Jake," she said. "He says it is an urgent matter."

"Thanks, Elsa," he said, taking the phone from her. She smiled and then proceeded to empty his ashtray into the garbage can behind the bar (carefully keeping the half joint out of the garbage can � she had learned that Jake didn't like it when she threw perfectly good pot away).

"What's up, Matt?" Jake asked.

"I think we got trouble," Matt said.

"Great," Jake mumbled. "I hate it when people say that to me."

"Yeah, it's a blowjob with broken braces, that's for damn sure."

"All right, lay it on me."

"It's about Darren," Matt said. "I think he might be on the shit again."

"Fuckin' wonderful," Jake said, knowing, of course, that by 'the shit', Matt meant heroin. "And right before we start putting the tour together too. What makes you think that?"

"Ever since we finished the album he hasn't come out of his house for anything," Matt told him. "I've called him half a dozen times these past few weeks trying to get him to go out to the Flamingo or fishing with me and he always says he has something else to do. The last few days, he hasn't even been taking my phone calls at all. Every time I call there I get that asshole Cedric who says Darren ain't feeling good or he's napping or he ain't there, even though I know he is there because I called Buxfield and asked if he'd gotten a limo. Buxfield says Darren hasn't ordered a limo for more than three weeks now."

Jake nodded. "So he's shut himself up in his condo. What else?"

"I went over there today, just so I could see what's up with him. I didn't call first, I just showed up. Fuckin' Cedric wouldn't let me in the house. He said that Darren's sick and not accepting any visitors. I threatened to kick his fucking ass if he didn't let me in but he didn't budge."

"Sick, huh?" Jake asked. "Did he say with what?"

"The flu," Matt said.

"The flu?" Jake said. "Yes, there's certainly a lot of flu going around Los Angeles in September, isn't there?"

"Exactly," Matt said.

"So what are we going to do about this?"

"I think we need to go talk to Crow," Matt suggested. "Cedric's his little spy and you can bet your sacred sack that if Darren's on the horse again Crow knows about it. We need to find out how bad it is and try to get his ass back in rehab before the tour."

"Okay," Jake said. "Should we have Pauline come with us?"

"Yeah. Nerdly too. How about we head down there at about three o'clock today? We'll storm his fuckin' office and lay into him."

"Sounds like a plan," Jake said. "I'll call Pauline and make sure she's there."

"Right," Matt said. "I'll call Nerdly. Three o'clock, the National Records Building. I'll see you there."

Jake hung up the phone and put his guitar up on the bar. It seemed that his creative mood had just been effectively cancelled.

"You can't go in there!" Crow's secretary cried when Jake, Matt, Nerdly, and Pauline came bursting into the office just after three o'clock. "Mr. Crow is in a meeting right now!"

"He can postpone his meeting for a while," Matt said, walking around her desk. "We're his most important band and we need to talk to him."

"No!" the secretary cried. "You don't understand. He's in a very... private meeting."

"Well, it's about to become a public one," Matt said. He grabbed the door handle and threw open the door to Crow's office. Jake, Pauline, and Nerdly were right behind him.

"Holy shit," Jake said as he got a good look at what was going on.

"Oh... my God," Pauline said, wanting to turn her eyes away but unable.

"Maybe we should have knocked first," said Nerdly.

Crow was sitting in his desk chair, just like expected, but the chair had been pushed away from the desk and over by the window. Crow's pants were down around his ankles and a dark haired man was kneeling on the floor between his legs, orally servicing him.

"What in the hell?" Crow grunted at them.

The figure between his legs raised his head up and looked at them, startled, scared. They saw that it was Mikey Garcia � the nineteen-year-old teen heartthrob who was the lead singer of the popular boy-band Urbano, which National had signed the year before.

"I knew you was a fuckin' faggot, Garcia," Matt said, shaking his head in disgust. "What a fuckin' waste. All that teenage poon dying to get a piece of you and all you wanna do is smoke somebody's joystick."

"Uh... this isn't what it looks like," Garcia said.

Jake chuckled. "I said something like that not too long ago," he said. "But it really was what it looked like."

"Should we... uh... let them finish their business?" Pauline asked softly. "I mean, I'm sure we could spare a few..."

"Fuck that," Matt said, stepping forward. He grabbed Garcia by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "Out. We got some serious shit to talk. You can finish him off later."

"Now wait just a minute!" Crow said.

"Out," Matt repeated, pushing the young kid toward the door. Garcia didn't need to be told twice. He fled like the building was on fire.

"How dare you come in here while I'm in a private meeting," Crow said.

"Why don't you pull up your pants, Crow?" Matt told him. "I don't think any of us really wanna look at your shit."

Crow frowned and then reached down and grabbed his pants. He stood and pulled them up, re-covering his equipment.

"You're not even Garcia's A&R guy, are you?" Matt asked. "What do you guys do? Pass him around like a joint?"

"What we do or do not do is not your concern," Crow said, still quite flustered from the interruption. "Now would you mind telling me why you all came busting in here without an appointment, or even a call to say you were coming?"

"Sure," Matt said. "Why don't you grab a seat?"

Crow pushed his chair over to his desk � upon which sat a mirror with a razor blade and a rolled up hundred dollar bill � and sat down. Jake, Matt, Pauline, and Nerdly all grabbed seats at the chairs in front of his desk.

"Now tell me what's going on," Crow said.

"Is Darren back on the heroin?" Matt asked.

Crow licked his lips a little. "Why... uh... would you ask that?"

"Because I strongly suspect that he is," Matt said.

"And what makes you think I would know anything about that?"

"Cut the bullshit, Crow," Matt said menacingly. "You got a fuckin' spy living with him. You know every goddamn thing he does. You know when he takes a fuckin' shit and how much it weighs. So give it up. Is he back on the fuckin' horse, or what?"

Crow sighed. "Yeah," he said. "He's back on it."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Matt said. "For how long?"

"He started doing it again back in December sometime," Crow said. "He..."

"December?" Matt nearly screamed. "Fucking December? He's been doing heroin for nine fucking months and you haven't told us about it?"

"He had it under control until just a few weeks ago," Crow said.

"Steve," Jake said, "we don't care if he had it under control or not. If you knew he was doing it you should have told us. We could have kept him from getting out of control."

"I'm assuming he's out of control now?" Nerdly asked.

"Yeah, he's out of control now," Crow said. "Look, guys, it really wasn't that big of a deal at first. He started scoring black tar heroin from some lowlife at the Flamingo."

"Black tar heroin?" Pauline asked. "What's that?"

"It's nasty shit that looks like a congealed black booger," Matt said. "It started popping up here a few years ago. They make it in Mexico by just mowing down a poppy field and mashing up the plants into a paste instead of processing them with chemicals and separating the good shit from the bad shit. It's got all kinds of impurities and dirt and grime and germs in it." He glared at Crow. "You didn't think that was a problem? That he was shooting that shit into his veins?"

"He wasn't shooting it into his veins," Crow said. "If he would've been doing that I would've intervened right away. All he was doing was smoking it at night before he went to bed."

"Smoking it?" Nerdly asked. "You can smoke heroin?"

"Black tar you can," Matt said. "It's basically like smoking opium in an opium bar, just not as clean."

"Right," Crow said. "And like I said, he had it under control for the longest time. He'd take a few hits at night and then go to sleep. The next morning he'd be fine. His musical productivity went up � you've all seen that � and he had a much better outlook on things. He stopped being so depressed."

"That's why he was so happy while we were working on the album," Jake said. "It wasn't our little speech on the airplane at all. He was just getting his fix again."

"That's why you didn't tell us," Matt accused. "You didn't want to fuck up productivity on the album."

"No," Crow denied, although he couldn't meet Matt's eyes as he did so. "That's not it at all. I just didn't see it as a problem. He was doing it once a day and not exhibiting any of the signs I associate with a problem. He didn't start shooting it, he didn't start using it before going to the jam sessions or the recording sessions. He was functioning just fine."

"Uh huh," Jake said. "And then what happened?"

"Well," Crow said, "once you were done recording and mixing the album, he suddenly found himself with a lot of time on his hands. He started smoking a lot more of it. Pretty soon he was keeping himself loaded up all day long. And then, about three weeks ago, Cedric started finding syringes in the garbage cans when he cleaned."

"And you still didn't think it was a problem?" Pauline asked. "When were you planning on telling us about this?"

"I was planning on an intervention soon," Crow said. "In fact, I meant to have done it by now. After all, we need to get him into rehab and dried out before the tour. But... well, he's been kind of sick the last few days so I've been putting if off until he gets better."

"Sick?" Jake asked. "What do you mean by that?"

"According to Cedric he's got a really bad case of the flu. It started three or four days ago and just keeps getting worse. He hasn't even been doing the heroin much any more. He's too sick to go out and get any."

Matt and Jake looked at each other. Pauline and Nerdly did the same.

"Has he seen a doctor for this?" Jake asked.

"No," Crow said. "According to Cedric it's just a nasty case of the flu. He'll shake it off in a few days and we'll get him into rehab. A month in there and he'll be clean enough to go on tour. That's probably the best for him if you think about it. He'll come out of rehab right into tour rehearsal. Once you guys head out, he won't have any access to heroin anymore. I'll make sure that Greg doesn't give him any."

Things suddenly became a lot clearer to Jake. "That was your plan all along, wasn't it?" he asked Crow. "Let him be a junkie until about a month before tour rehearsal starts and then stuff him in rehab. By the time he comes out there won't be enough time for him to lapse back."

"Well... it might've crossed my mind," Crow admitted.

"I oughtta twist your fuckin' head off and shit down your neck," Matt said, glaring. He stood up. "Come on," he told Jake, Pauline, and Nerdly. "Let's get over there."

"What are you going to do?" Crow asked.

"We're gonna see how bad off he is for one thing," Matt said. "Call up your little dick-smoking spy and tell him to let us in when we get there."

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Matt?" Crow asked. "I really think we should wait until he's better before we try an intervention."

"Just do what the fuck I said, Crow," Matt said. He walked out the door. Jake, Nerdly, and Pauline followed him.

Cedric let them in without argument. Darren's luxury condo was spotless clean, with everything in its place but there was an unpleasant smell in the air, just a hint of it, but it was enough to make Jake want to start breathing through his mouth. The odor reminded him of rotting garbage.

"Where's he at?" Matt asked when they entered the living room.

"He's been in bed since last night," Cedric said. "This flu is hitting him really hard. He's hardly eaten anything in the past two days."

"Uh huh," Jake said. "And when was the last time he shot up?"

"Not since early yesterday," Cedric replied. "Which is how I know he's really sick. Usually he spends all day loaded up."

They walked to Darren's bedroom and opened the door. As soon as they did the rotting garbage odor overwhelmed them, making Pauline and Nerdly gag.

"Oh my god," Pauline said. "What is that smell?"

"I don't know," Cedric said. "I've been smelling it for a few days now, ever since he got sick. It seems to be coming from him � from his skin. He takes a shower but the smell doesn't go away."

"Christ," Jake said, stepping into the room. Things were a little messier in here, with a few articles of clothing strewn about the carpet, a few cigarette butts and overflowing ashtrays sitting next to the bed. Darren was lying on his side in the middle of the bed wearing nothing but a tattered pair of Calvin Klein underwear. His skin was pale, almost ashen, and he looked as if he'd lost ten or fifteen pounds since the last time they'd seen him. His eyes were closed and he was breathing raggedly.

"Look at him," Nerdly said. "That doesn't look like influenza to me."

They walked closer to the bed and Jake reached down and grabbed Darren's shoulder. He had to shake him for the better part of twenty seconds before the bass player's eyes creaked open and he looked at them. He didn't seem to comprehend for another thirty seconds or so but finally the eyes seemed to focus.

"Hey, Jake," he said. "Wassup?"

"What's wrong with his voice?" Pauline asked before Jake or Matt had a chance to. His words had been slurred almost beyond comprehension.

"It's been like that all day," Cedric said. "He says it's hard to swallow and that his tongue doesn't seem to work right."

"How you doing, Darren?" Jake asked, keeping his distance in case whatever Darren had was contagious. "You don't look so good."

"Been really fuckin' sick the last few days," Darren croaked. "The flu sucks, man."

"Yeah," Jake said. "Are you hurting?"

"No, just really fuckin' weak. I don't have no energy at all. And my arms..." He shook his head. "I think that's the worst."

"What's wrong with your arms?"

"I can't hardly move 'em," Darren said. "It takes everything I got just to lift them off the bed. And my breathing."

"Your breathing? What about it?"

"It just feels... you know... really hard to breathe. Like my lungs don't wanna do it for me."

Matt and Jake both turned murderous glares toward Cedric.

"What?" he asked, defensively.

Matt was the one to speak. "His speech is all fucked up, he can't lift his arms, and he's having trouble breathing? Is that what you think the fuckin' flu is, asshole?"

"It's not the flu?" Darren asked, having to take a few breaths first. "What is it then?"

"Is he hot?" asked Nerdly. "Maybe he's got an infection."

"He didn't feel hot when I touched him," Jake said.

"I really don't feel good," Darren said. "This is even worse than those burns that time."

"I think we need to get him to a hospital, guys," Pauline said. "He's pretty sick."

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "I think that's a real good idea."

They managed to get a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt on him and drag him downstairs to the waiting limousine. In doing so, however, they seemed to have sapped the last of his strength. As they made the ten minute drive Darren was no longer able to hold himself up and his consciousness waned until even vigorous shaking wouldn't bring him around. Most frightening was his breathing. It became even more ragged and irregular, each breath shallow and weak.

They pulled up in the ambulance entrance of Good Samaritan Hospital just west of downtown. Pauline went inside and explained the situation to the nurses on duty at the front desk. Soon they came back out with a gurney and dragged Darren out of the limo. He moaned a little as the transfer was made but otherwise didn't seem to notice.

"One of you come in with us to explain what's going on here," one of the nurses said. "The rest of you go to the waiting room."

"I'll go," said Jake before anyone else could volunteer.

Nobody argued with this.

They took Darren into a large room in the emergency department and began stripping his clothes off. A doctor came in, blinked a little when he recognized Jake, and then began asking questions. Jake told the story as best he could, leaving nothing out, including the heroin use.

"When was the last time he used?" the doctor asked.

"According to his servant he hasn't shot up since yesterday," Jake replied.

"Hmmm," the doctor said. "Okay, I think I got the general idea. Why don't you go out into the waiting room for now and I'll let you know what's going on as soon as I can."

"Right," Jake said, watching as one of the nurses shoved a thermometer up Darren's ass. "I'll do that."

He joined Matt, Nerdly, and Pauline in the waiting room. It wasn't long before throngs of curious patients out there with them started drifting over to beg for autographs or to ask what was going on. One of them even asked Jake if he'd beat up another girl. Finally the charge nurse took pity on them (or at least wanted to restore order to the hospital) and moved them to a small room that was labeled "Quiet Room". There were two couches, a telephone, and a coffee maker in here. They sat down and waited. Soon a clerk came in to ask them about billing information but after that, no one.

It was almost an hour before the doctor made an appearance. He was in his early forties but going gray around the temples and bald up on top. Aside from that, however, he looked like he was in good shape. He was not smiling as he entered the room.

"I'm Doctor Bradford, one of the ER physicians," he said. "I talked to Mr. Kingsley here earlier but I didn't get a chance to introduce myself. You're Mr. Tisdale and Mr. Archer, right?"

"Right," Matt said.

"Yes," said Nerdly.

"And you are?" he asked, looking at Pauline.

"Pauline Kingsley," she said. "I'm Jake's sister and the band's manager. Now that we all know each other, what can you tell us about Darren?"

"Of course," he said, grabbing a seat at one of the empty chairs. "Your friend is very sick. It took me a few minutes to actually figure that out despite what Mr. Kingsley told me about the arm weakness and the speech difficulties. I assumed at first that I was just dealing with an overdose of heroin. The slow and shallow respiratory rate and the decreased level of consciousness that he was exhibiting are classic signs of that."

"So you gave him Narcan?" Matt asked.

The doctor blinked. "Why yes," he said. "That's exactly what I did. Narcan is a narcotic antagonist drug. It basically goes in and binds to the receptors in the brain that an opiate uses to have its effects on the body. Narcan itself has no physical effect but it's presence keeps the opiates in the body from acting. Generally, in an overdose situation, it works within seconds and the victim resumes normal breathing and normal consciousness."

"But that didn't happen with Darren?" Jake asked.

"No," Bradford said. "It didn't. It had no effect whatsoever. That was when I started to realize I was dealing with something a little more than a simple overdose. In the meantime, however, Darren's breathing slowed even further and got to the point where it wasn't providing enough oxygen to his bloodstream. I was forced to put in a breathing tube and attach him to a ventilator."

"So he's on life support?" Pauline asked, her eyes widening.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Bradford said. "And if what I suspect is wrong with him turns out to be correct, I think he's going to be on a ventilator for awhile."

"What is it that you suspect?" Jake asked.

"I think he has an advanced case of botulism," Bradford said.

"Botulism?" Matt asked, his eyes widening. "Ain't that the shit you get from canned food?"

"Yes," Bradford confirmed. "Botulism is rare but most cases are caused by improperly canned foods. There is another way to get it, however. It's called wound botulism. What happens here is that anaerobic bacteria � which mean they don't require oxygen in order to reproduce � become trapped in the subcutaneous tissue as a result of a wound or abscess. They reproduce there and release the botulism toxin, thus poisoning the body and inhibiting nerve transmissions in the muscles, including the muscles that control respiration. This form of botulism, until a few years ago, was almost unheard of in developed countries. But these days it is starting to crop up more and more, usually among people who use black tar heroin."

"So it is the heroin," Nerdly said.

"Yes, the heroin is indirectly responsible. I examined your friend's body and found several abscesses on his upper arms and upper legs. It appears he has been injecting the drug subcutaneously, which, on the street, is called 'skin-popping'. Black tar heroin is really nasty stuff. It has a multitude of impurities in it and if it does have the right kind of bacteria in it, the heating that is done in the spoon prior to injection is sometimes not enough to kill them all. They get under the skin and find themselves in the perfect environment for reproduction. It would seem that this is what happened to Darren."

"How bad is he?" Jake asked. "Is he going to die?"

"Well, you have to understand that I don't have confirmation that this is what is wrong with him yet. I need to wait for the results of the spinal tap we took just so we can rule out meningitis and a couple of other things. If he does have botulism, then it is quite advanced. He should have been in the hospital several days ago."

"Nobody told us anything was wrong until today," Jake said angrily.

"Oh... I see," Bradford said. "In any case, assuming it's botulism, it is unlikely that he will die from it � possible, but unlikely � but he's going to be sick for a very long time."

"How long?" Matt asked.

"As soon as I have confirmation of botulism I'll contact the Center for Disease Control and get them to release some of their anti-toxin so we can start to treat him. We'll also put him on IV antibiotics. Hopefully that will keep his symptoms from getting worse but the recovery period from the advanced stages of botulism is usually measured in months."

"Months?" Nerdly asked.

"That's correct," Bradford said. "More than likely he is going to be on that ventilator for six to eight weeks. Once he's weaned from it he's going to need extensive rehabilitation in order to get back his muscle tone and mobility. From what I understand it can sometimes take the better part of a year before the patient is even able to lift anything again."

"Jesus," Jake said, shaking his head numbly.

"Fuckin' aye," Matt agreed.

Darren was moved from the emergency room to the intensive care unit upstairs. He had IV lines running through pumps into his arms. He had wires snaking all over his chest and eventually meeting at a beeping heart monitor. He had a tube sticking out of his mouth that was connected to a hose which led to a ventilator that gave a loud hiss and a thump every three seconds or so. He was completely unresponsive, his body flaccid on the bed.

Jake and the others only got a quick look at him before he was wheeled away. They were told that they might as well go home, that he wouldn't be allowed any visitors until he was a little more stable and they were able to absolutely rule out infectious disease as the cause of his malady.

"I'll call Crow and let him know what's going on," Pauline said as they settled themselves back in the limo. "For now I'll be vague on the long-term prognosis."

"Somebody needs to call Darren's mom too," Nerdly said. "They should hear it from us before they see it on Entertainment Tonight."

"That's a good point, Nerdly," Jake said. "Matt, do you still know his mom's number?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'll call her when I get home."

Pauline winced as she thought of Matt passing on bad news. Hey, Mrs. Appleman, your son's like all fucked up with botulism and shit. "Uh..." she said, "if you give me the number, Matt, I'll give them a call at the same time I call Crow."

"Oh... okay. Good idea."

"How long until the media finds out about this?" Nerdly asked.

"I'm surprised they're not here already," Jake said.

In truth, the story had already leaked out. The reporters just hadn't arrived yet. Though hospital admissions and patient information were supposed to be confidential, two of the billing clerks, one x-ray technician, one nurse, and two lab technicians wasted no time in calling every friend and acquaintance they knew from the hospital's phones to share the news that Darren Appleman, bassist for Intemperance, was in grave condition in the hospital. By the time the story made it to the reporters it was so wildly distorted it was hardly recognizable. Some reporters heard Darren had been shot, some that he'd been stabbed, some that he'd been in a car accident, and some that he'd overdosed. In every version, however, heroin was somehow involved and Jake Kingsley was somehow responsible for the damage done to Darren.

The media vans began pulling up shortly after Jake, Nerdly, and Pauline drove away. The reporters spilled out while their camera crews began setting up equipment in front of the emergency room entrance. They began filming and questioning every hospital employee who came outside to smoke or take a break. Most of these employees had heard that a member of Intemperance had been brought in but none knew any details of the hows or whys. This did not stop many of them from repeating the rumors they'd heard, or just plain making up new ones.

Finally, at around eight o'clock that evening, a hospital administrator, called in from home, gave a brief press conference that did more to sow confusion than clear it up. All she would say was that Darren Appleman, bassist for Intemperance, had been brought in just after five o'clock that afternoon by other members of the band. He was now on life support and in critical condition.

"Is it true that Jake Kingsley shot him in the head during an argument over drugs?" one reporter shouted.

"I am not allowed to disclose the details of Mr. Appleman's illness," she said.

"Does he have a head injury?" another reporter asked. "I was told that Jake Kingsley hit him in the head with a hammer."

"As I said," she repeated, "I am not allowed to disclose any details because of patient confidentiality rules."

"Has Jake Kingsley been arrested yet?" asked yet another reporter.

"I have no information on that," she replied.

The eleven o'clock news reports that night all featured in-depth stories about Darren that were based on very few facts. Every channel, in fact, reported something different. One even reported that Jake had been arrested for attempted murder.

It was late the following day that Pauline, with Crow standing next to her, gave an official statement in front of the hospital.

"Darren Appleman is suffering from a severe case of botulism caused by bacterial infection inside wounds on his arms and legs. These wounds were originally inflicted by Darren himself who has been struggling with a heroin addiction. He was apparently injecting the heroin in a manner known as skin-popping. He is in critical condition. A ventilator is breathing for him and he can hardly move his arms and legs. They have given him an anti-toxin and antibiotics but so far he is showing no improvement. He is expected to recover from this eventually but I am told this will take several months, perhaps as much as a year."

In a way the reporters seemed to feel that the real story was anticlimactic, boring even. They asked no questions about Darren's sickness, shifting focus instead to the future.

"Will this affect your release of the next Intemperance album?" asked one reporter.

Crow quickly leapt to the microphones and fielded that one. "Absolutely not," he said. "Intemperance's fourth album, It's In The Book, will be released for sale on November 15, as scheduled."

"What about the tour?" asked another. "Will there still be a tour to promote the album?"

Pauline took the microphone back. "We don't know right now," she said. "Obviously Darren will not be up to touring until he is fully recovered."

"Is there any talk of replacing Darren?" asked yet another.

Pauline's expression was a little angry. "He's only been in here for a little over twenty-four hours," she said. "I don't think any of us have started thinking that far ahead yet."

It wasn't very long, however, before it was time to start thinking of that.

The prevailing rumor over the next few weeks was that Darren was a vegetable, languishing on life-support without awareness or comprehension, only waiting for someone to make the decision to pull the plug. This was not even close to the truth. Darren remained on a ventilator because his respiratory muscles no longer had the strength to draw air into his lungs. His arms and legs remained flaccid because they no longer had the strength to move. Darren's brain, however, was still quite in the game. He was kept heavily sedated much of the time in order to spare him the discomfort of having a breathing tube crammed into his trachea, a catheter crammed in his urethra, and a diaper wrapped around his ass, but he was lucid, or at least semi-lucid, in the intervals between drug doses. He could hear and understand and he could even communicate, though not verbally because of the endotracheal tube. He mother had flown in from Heritage and was staying in the downtown apartment Matt rented to sleep in during the workweek when recording or rehearsing was in progress (Matt's house in San Juan Capistrano was too far away for convenient daily commuting). She visited Darren for at least four hours every day, sitting beside him and reading to him or talking to him. One of Darren's fellow band members or Pauline visited every day as well, although usually only for an hour or so. Darren could nod or shake his head slightly for yes or no responses and his eyes could track a conversation. There was no gauging how his spirits were actually doing though because of the drugs he was on.

As the date began to approach for release of the new album public interest in it began to swell unlike any of their previous releases. Crow didn't even have to let slip that the title cut was the song that had prompted the breakup between Michelle Borrows (now Rourke) and Jake. Michelle herself took care of that quite nicely.

"That song is the vile and disgusting condemnation of The Bible that finally forced me to pull myself away from Kingsley and back to The Lord," she stated during an appearance on Wake Up USA. "If there was any decency left in the country it would be illegal to sell such an offensive and obscene lyrical arrangement to anyone, especially children."

The proverbial shit really hit the proverbial fan when National began to advertise the up and coming album in various magazines and the ads displayed a picture of the album cover. Within forty-eight hours every major Christian organization in the country was up in arms over what they considered the worst kind of blasphemy.

They have the nerve to actually show the holy cross on their album cover, read a press release from one such group. They mock the most sacred symbol of Christianity in order to sell albums to our children. There was now mention in this tirade, or in any other, that this particular cross had been cemented into Jake's yard in the middle of the night by alleged Christians.

Putting out of context biblical verses on a satanic band's album cover is completely over the line, read the press release from the national Family Values Coalition headquarters. There are times when the First Amendment simply allows too much. I hardly think this is the sort of speech our Founding Fathers were worried about protecting. This album needs to be banned from release to the public and from airplay on public airwaves.

And, of course, Crow and the rest of the bigwigs at National Records couldn't have been happier. They knew there wasn't a chance in hell that any judge would ever rule that It's In The Book needed to be banned but the publicity the furor was producing was absolutely priceless. In the boardrooms of the National Records Building it was thought that It's In The Book might very well be the fastest selling LP of all time. They eagerly awaited its release so they could start reaping their rewards. Their only regret was that Intemperance was operating under their new contract and would siphon a good portion of that profit for themselves.

It was on November 2, two weeks before Book's release, that Crow called Pauline and the remaining band members for a meeting in his office. They started off with the usual preliminaries � Crow offered them drinks and cocaine and they all refused, settling instead for soda, water, coffee, or tea. Finally, with a look of trepidation, Crow got down to the business at hand.

"We need to start putting the tour together," he told them.

"What fuckin' tour?" Matt asked. "Haven't you been reading the goddamn newspapers? Our bass player is in the hospital on fuckin' life support."

"I'm aware of that," Crow said. "I'm also aware that he is going to be in there for at least six months, maybe more. It will be more than a year before he regains enough strength to stand up to the rigors of touring... if ever."

"So what are you saying?" Jake asked.

"The show must go on," Crow said. "We need to start looking for a replacement for Darren."

The argument over this raged for more than three days. At times it seemed like everybody was pitted against everyone else. Initially all four band members and Pauline completely rejected the idea of replacing Darren � even on a temporary basis.

"He's a fuck-up and a heroin addict," Matt said, "and sometimes it seems like a roomful of houseplants with the right sort of fertilizer might be able to outthink him, but he's our fuck-up, our heroin addict, our dumbshit. He's been with the band since day fucking one, even before Jake and Nerdly. We owe him some fuckin' loyalty, Crow! I ain't gonna go hiring some fuckin' hacker to replace him just because he's sick."

"Didn't you tell him that if he ever used heroin again he was out of the band?" Crow asked. "Well... he's used it again, hasn't he?"

"That was a threat, Crow," Jake said, glancing at Coop nervously. Coop had been given the same threat. "It wasn't a completely empty threat, mind you. If he had started missing meetings or showing up to rehearsal loaded, we would have carried through with it. But it was not intended as an absolute."

"Yeah, man," Coop agreed. "He just had a little slip back into the shit and then had some bad luck with this botulism thing. That don't mean we gotta kick his ass out."

"I won't vote to replace him under these circumstances," Nerdly said firmly. The rest of the band agreed.

Pauline was the first to change her mind. It wasn't really changed, per se, but forced into transition by the realities of the situation. The band was contractually obligated to go out on tour. Their new contract gave them the right to plan their tour, to veto any act proposed by National for their tour, and to come up with the song order and list for their tour, but it did not give them the right to refuse to tour.

"What the fuck do you mean we have to go on tour?" Matt demanded when she shared this uncomfortable news with him. "We can't control the fact that our bass player is sick."

"That doesn't matter, Matt," Pauline said.

"What the fuck do you mean it doesn't matter?" he yelled.

"Look," she said, remaining her usual calm, cool, and collected self. "I understand how we all feel about Darren. I'm talking about things from a strictly legal standpoint and from how a judge and jury would look at this thing if push came to shove. If there were a reasonable prohibition from touring that would be one thing. National wouldn't be able to demand you go out there."

"Not having a bass player is not a reasonable prohibition?" Jake asked.

"No, it is not," she said. "Darren is not a key member of the band and he is easily replaced. If Matt or Jake or possibly even Bill were the one laying on life-support in a hospital we could make the argument that you were irreplaceable to the band. That argument simply does not stand up with the bass player or the drummer � sorry, Coop, but that's the way it is."

"Yeah," Coop grunted sourly.

"The simple fact of the matter is that if you don't get a new bass player and get out on tour in a reasonable amount of time, National will have a valid basis to claim breach of contract. And, as you know, if National can get a breach of contract ruling, you will revert to your original contract immediately, which means that you'll all lose the income from what is obviously going to be your best selling album so far."

This argument was a very persuasive one indeed. Jake and Nerdly both reluctantly agreed that � as painful and distasteful as it seemed � they were going to have to find someone to take Darren's place and hit the road. Matt and Coop refused to budge on their stances at first.

"Then put us back to the goddamn original contract," Matt proclaimed. "What the fuck is money anyway? It sure as shit ain't as important as loyalty to your fuckin' friends!"

"Yeah!" Coop agreed, casting evil glares at Jake and Nerdly. "If Darren ain't going then I ain't going. National can lick my hairy balls!"

"This is a mess, Jake," Pauline told her brother later that night as they sat on his balcony slamming shots of tequila and washing them down with Corona beer. "I can't believe those two are willing to sacrifice everything we've all worked for just because of misplaced loyalty."

"They'll come around," Jake predicted, lighting his thirty-seventh cigarette of that most trying day. "I'll talk to them privately tomorrow and hopefully they'll start to see the light."

"Hopefully," she said. "I better call for a limo now or I'll end up puking in it later."

Jake did talk to the two of them the next day and he was finally able to put things into a proper perspective for them.

"Look," he said, "put aside your feelings for Darren for now. That's how I was able to come to the conclusion I've come to."

"By abandoning a band mate?" Matt asked. "That's real fuckin' rich!"

"No," Jake said, "that's not what I'm doing at all. Did you ever stop to think that National wants nothing more than for us to refuse to go out on tour?"

"What are you talking about?" Coop asked.

"If we refuse to tour, they get to revert us back to the original contract," Jake said. "What that means is they'll rake in almost all of the profit from It's In The Book, which will probably sell at least five million copies over the next year or so, not to mention five or six million in singles sales. That's an ass-load of money for them if they don't have to share as much of it with us. How much do you think they're anticipating making from the tour?"

"I don't know," Matt said thoughtfully. "Why don't you tell me?"

"They would make profit off the tour, don't get me wrong there. We would sell out every venue and I wouldn't be surprised if they jacked up the ticket prices a little just to pull in more. But no matter how much they make off of us touring, it wouldn't be a tenth of what they'd stand to make if we reverted back to the old contract and they got to cheat us blind again."

"Wow," Coop said slowly as he pondered this.

"I never really thought of it that way," Matt said.

"Guys, seriously, I love Darren like a brother � a fucked-up, pain-in-the-ass brother, but a brother nonetheless. I don't make a decision like this lightly. We don't have to kick him out of the band, we can just hire a temporary replacement. If we don't go out on tour, though, we're all gonna get fucked � including Darren � and National is going to be the only one who wins."

Jake's speech did the trick. Within twenty-four hours Coop and Matt had signed on with the plan to go on tour and the search began for a new bassist.

"I'm glad you're finally seeing things our way," Crow told them in his office the next day.

"Yeah yeah," Matt said sourly. "And if chickens could fly you wouldn't be able to felch with their wings."

Crow puzzled over that one for a few moments and then shook his head. "Anyway," he told them, "I've taken the liberty of putting together profiles on four of our studio bass players for you." He pulled four file folders from his desk and set them down before the band. "I would recommend John Clampsy here." He tapped the top folder. "He's been doing sessions with us for six years now and is probably the best of the four."

"Studio musicians?" Jake asked. "You want us to pick a studio bass player?"

"What's wrong with that?" Crow asked.

"Well... in the first place, we don't know any of these people."

"And in the second place they all suck ass," Matt added.

"They're professional musicians," Crow said. "How can you possibly say they aren't good without hearing them first?"

"I don't need to hear them," Matt said. "They're spending their lives playing movie soundtrack bits for you at a little over minimum wage and minor royalties. If they were touring band caliber they wouldn't be here."

"That's not true!" Crow said. "Where do you come up with this shit, Matt?"

"Look, Crow," Jake said. "I'm sure your studio guys are decent with their instruments for what you have them doing, but none of these guys have ever toured before, have they?"

"Well... no, not on a major label tour, but..."

"We want someone with touring experience," Jake said. "We want someone who knows what it's like to ride on a bus for sixteen hours at a time for weeks on end. I don't think a studio musician would have what it takes to put up with that."

"And Intemperance is a fuckin' exclusive club," Matt said. "We ain't letting just any hacker in here, especially not one who would be nothing but a spy for you."

"A spy?" Crow said. "You're getting paranoid, Matt."

"Paranoid?" Matt asked. "When you work for an organization that once bugged Jake's phone just to see who he was dating, I don't think it's really possible to write off anything you people do as mere paranoia."

"I had nothing to do with that," Crow said. "That was Acardio."

"There's no need to dwell too much on the past," Jake said. "But I think our position is clear. We want an experienced touring musician, preferably someone we know or have at least met."

"Who did you have in mind?" Crow asked.

"How about Fran Jeffers from Caliper?" Matt asked. Caliper was a popular thrash metal band that had followed in the wake of groups like Motley Crue and Slayer. "I partied with them two years ago when they came through on their Sustentations tour. Caliper just broke up three months ago, didn't they? Maybe we could try to get Jeffers."

Crow had been shaking his head the entire time. "Caliper was signed with Columbia Records. They broke up before their contract was expired. There's no way in hell Columbia is going to release him from the contract so he can come work with us."

"What the fuck is up with you record company assholes?" Matt yelled. "It sounds like we're talking about buying a fuckin' slave here."

"In a way," Pauline said, "that's exactly what it's like."

"Look, guys," Crow said, "I understand where you're coming from here � really, I do � but I don't think we're going to find a touring experienced bass player who happens to be free of a contract just laying around doing nothing. Our goal here is to get you guys out on tour as quickly as possible. I really think the only way to do that is to go with one of our studio musicians."

Before Matt could go on another tirade, Nerdly suddenly spoke up. "I have somebody in mind who just might be an acceptable choice to all involved parties."

Everyone looked at him. "Who?" Crow asked.

"Charlie Meyer," he said.

"Charlie Meyer?" Jake asked. "From Birmingham?" Birmingham was a southern rock group that had signed with National just over three years before. They had recorded a single album that had produced a single top ten hit that was nominated for a Grammy in 1985. Unfortunately, when they failed to win that Grammy, National had elected not to invest in a second album and the band had faded from view � another one-hit-wonder group that few even remembered now. The only reason the members of Intemperance knew who Charlie Meyer was was because Birmingham had been their opening band on the The Thrill Of Doing Business tour.

"That's him," Nerdly confirmed. He looked at Crow. "Ever since you refused to finance their second album he's been working in West Hollywood at a Speedy-Lube. He's not able to work as a musician anywhere but here since he's still under contract with you, but the guys over in media sounds have been using him for twenty or thirty hours a month to do the bass on movie soundtracks."

"They have?" Crow asked, surprised. Though he had been Birmingham's A&R rep when they'd been hot, he hadn't given a thought to them in more than two years.

"Yep," Nerdly confirmed.

"How do you know this, Nerdly?" Jake asked.

Nerdly looked a little embarrassed. "Well... I've been spending some of my free time in the studio helping some of the guys with their mixing. I was here about a month ago when they were mixing the soundtrack for the next Star Trek flick and Charlie was in there doing overdubs on the bass tracks. We went and had a few drinks and some smoke after the session."

"No shit?" Jake asked. "How's he doing?"

"He seems like he's almost suicidal," Nerdly said. "He's living in a one room apartment in Hollywood and pays the rent by lubing cars for minimum wage. He picks up a hundred dollars or so a month with the studio sessions they throw him and he's just waiting for their contract to expire so he can be a real musician again."

"How sad for him," Crow said, rolling his eyes. "But you have to remember..."

"You know why the studio likes to use him?" Nerdly asked, interrupting Crow.

"Why?" Matt asked.

"They say he's one of the best bass players they've ever heard," Nerdly said. "He can pick up a rhythm that someone else has laid down and replay it to perfection without even seeing the notes on paper. They want to use him full time down there but he doesn't want to get locked into the whole studio musician contract."

Jake and Matt were looking at each other and passing good signals back and forth. "Meyer was a good bass player," Jake said. "I caught their act while they were opening for us. He knows what he's doing."

"We partied with him a few times too," Matt said. "He's an okay guy. A little strange, but no more so than Nerdly here."

"I'm not strange," Nerdly said, offended.

"Uh... guys," Crow cut in, "before you start painting his name on a locker, I think we need to talk about this a bit. Meyer is still operating under the Birmingham contract. If I remember correctly, they're obligated to the terms of that agreement until late in 1990. He can't just go joining another band like some guy off the street."

"Why not?" Pauline asked. "National holds his contract. You can release him from it if you want."

"If we release Meyer from the contract we have to release the entire band from it," Crow said. "That would leave them free to get back together and start playing for a different label."

"Oh give me a fuckin' break, Crow," Matt said. "You guys are one of the biggest labels in the world and you didn't want to record a second Birmingham album right after their first one. Who in the fuck is going to sign them now, three years later?"

"They could also go on tour again," Crow said. "There is no way that Mr. Doolittle or Mr. Casting will allow release of their contract."

"You're making this up as you go along, Crow," Pauline said.

"Excuse me?" he said, seemingly insulted.

"Don't bullshit a professional bullshitter," she said. "National owns the rights to every Birmingham song. Even if they did form up again they can't perform any of those songs in front of an audience for the next twenty-five years without your agreement. So if nobody is going to sign them as Birmingham and if they can't even do a reunion tour, what's the big deal about releasing them?"

"They could start doing solo efforts," Crow said. "They could start playing with other bands again."

"So?" Jake asked. "How much money would you lose from that? You don't have any intention of letting them record something. You just want to punish them for not selling more albums."

"Actually, I think it's a little more than that," Pauline said.

"Oh?" Crow said condescendingly. "And suppose you tell me just what this is about?"

"Gladly," she said. "Jake hit the nail on the head a few days ago. You don't want Intemperance to go out on tour. You want to be able to claim breach of contract so you can revert to the old contract and keep all the album and single revenue for yourselves."

"That is not true," Crow said. "You're getting as paranoid as Matt, Pauline."

"Maybe," she said, "but there's one thing you're not considering here. A little legal fine point with this situation turns your open and shut case to something a little more up in the air. "

"What's that?" Crow said warily. He had witnessed Pauline's legal skills before and had learned � the hard way � to respect them.

"The guys here are making a reasonable effort to work with you on this whole bass player thing," she said. "They've agreed to hire a replacement for Darren and go out on tour. They've informed you of their choice of bass player and there is no real reason for you � National Records management � to reject that choice. If you do reject Meyer and you then try to push a breach of contract ruling because the band does not accept your choices as replacement and go out on tour, I will go into court and argue that it is you, National Records, who are being unreasonable. I think if I were to do that and put Jake, Nerdly, and Matt up on the stand to testify to this matter, a jury might just see your scheme for what it is. They would probably reject any breach of contract charge."

"Your paranoia is showing again," Crow said uncomfortably. "There is no plot to try to keep the band from going on tour."

"Uh huh," Pauline said. "In any case, I'd suggest you take this matter up with Doolittle and Casting and start talking about releasing Birmingham from their contract. You need to advise them that we are prepared, once again, to go to the wall on this. I want you to call me the first thing in the morning with your decision. Once it's in � and I have no doubt they'll see things our way once they know the facts � we'll go talk to Meyer ourselves and ask him if he's interested. And before you even think to do it, don't try anything stupid like contacting Meyer and threatening him about rejecting our proposal. I think that between Matt, Jake, and myself we can override any threats your puny little minds could think to lay on him."

Crow was stunned, looking like he'd just gone a round or two with a heavyweight champion.

"Do you understand, Crow?" Pauline asked sweetly.

"Yes," he finally said. "I understand."

The phone call came in to Pauline's business line at 9:10 the next morning. It was Crow. "If Meyer is interested in playing with Intemperance until Appleman is better, we will release Birmingham from their contract," he said.

"Very good," Pauline said. "I thought you'd see things my way. Can you get Meyer's address for me?"

"I have it right here," he said. He read off a Hollywood address and Pauline wrote it down.

"Thank you, Crow," she said. "We'll get back with you later today regarding his decision."

"You do that," he said. "If he agrees, we'll set him up with a separate contract from the rest of the band. It will stipulate that..."

"Nope," Pauline interrupted. "We're not going to do that."

"Excuse me?"

"If Meyer signs on he'll be covered under the same contract as the other members of Intemperance," she said. "He'll be given his cut of fifty percent of the tour profits, paid quarterly, and will be allowed to sign on for any endorsement contracts he can come up with."

"Now wait a minute," Crow said. "Nobody said anything about..."

"And furthermore," Pauline said, "he will be subjected to the same rules as the other band members. We're hiring him as a temp, but from your standpoint he will be nothing more or less than a full-fledged replacement for Darren. That means the band will be the one to fire him if they feel they need to, not you."

"We did not agree to any of this," Crow said.

"But you will," she said. "If Meyer becomes a member of this group it will be with all of the protections I can offer him. I will not be a party to the ruthless exploitation that you in that building force upon the musicians who work for you. Do I make myself clear, Crow?"

"Yeah," he said at last. "You make yourself clear."

Charlie Meyer's apartment complex was two blocks away from the complex Jake and Nerdly had lived in while recording Descent Into Nothing, the first Intemperance album. It was two blocks away but it was miles more depressing and squalid. Composed of run-down post-war units whose better days had been back when Chuck Berry had been king, it was now full of parolees, drug addicts, hookers, and hopeless alcoholics. Charlie's apartment was on the second floor, near the very back of the complex. At 10:30 AM he sat in a battered easy chair watching an old black and white television set with rabbit ears on top of it.

Charlie was sitting in a pair of torn and filthy denim cut-offs. He was shirtless, his hair unwashed and hanging down around his shoulders, his face showing several days worth of stubble. The odor of sour sweat and cigarette smoke hung around him like a cloud. The television was tuned to an old episode of The Andy Griffith Show and the living room floor was cluttered with beer cans, laundry, cigarette butts, and old food containers. As Andy and Barney replaced the homemade pickles in Aunt Bee's pickle jars with store bought pickles, Charlie dug through a pile of debris on his end table and came up with a half-empty pack of generic cigarettes. He took one out and lit up, dropping the match into an empty beer can. He dragged thoughtfully and then looked up at the wall above the television, the wall where two gold records had been hung amid a display of framed photographs of him and his bass guitar.

When Nerdly had said that Charlie seemed "almost suicidal" he hadn't been kidding. A dark depression was constantly hanging over him, a depression that had started more than two and half years ago but that was now threatening to strangle him into nothingness. More and more these days he seemed to find himself thinking about the National Records Building only fifteen blocks away from where he now sat. He thought about how easy it would be to walk into that building on any given weekday and take the elevator up to the top floor. From there it was an easy trip to the observation platform up on the roof. From there, it was an easy climb to the top of the barricade that blocked access to the street two hundred and forty feet below. Wouldn't that be a fitting end for a disgraced rock star? Would there even be an obituary for him in the Birmingham News? What would be waiting for him in the next life? It would have to be better than what was waiting for him in this life, wouldn't it?

Charlie was twenty-six years old on this day. He had been born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, raised by his mother and a succession of verbally and sometimes physically abusive stepfathers. He had started playing music in sixth grade and had been a band geek all the way through school, playing the trumpet, the trombone, the obo, and even the drums for a brief stint during his high school days. He had picked up the bass his senior year in high school, taking it to it like Matt Tisdale to a threesome with two groupie sluts. From there he had joined a series of local bands, eventually finding his way to that magic combination that had initially been called Stratos. They had enjoyed a year's worth of popularity in the Birmingham clubs before Mike Landry, their singer and songwriter, had sent one of their demo tapes to a Los Angeles agent and they'd been discovered. They'd changed their name to Birmingham at the suggestion of Steve Crow, their A&R guy and then the roller coaster ride had started.

Everything after that seemed like such a dream now that sometimes he wondered if it had really happened. Only the two gold records on the wall � one for their album, Southern Nights and one for their only single, Texas Hold-em � could convince him at times that it had been real. They had recorded their album and had heard their song played on the radio. They'd watched it go all the way to number one and then off they'd gone on concert tour, opening for the legendary Intemperance at cities all across the nation. They'd lived the good life, the life they'd always dreamed of, with groupies sucking their dicks in the shower, with bowls full of pot in their dressing room, with cocaine shoved under their nose day and night. They'd lived in luxurious condos with servants and traveled in limousines. They'd even been nominated for a Grammy award, perhaps the pinnacle of it all.

After failing to win the Grammy everything had crashed down around them in a matter of weeks. National refused to invest in a second album, stating poor sales and anticipated weaker sales on a second as the reason. They were told they were not allowed to play as musicians until the six year contract expired and then they were kicked out of their condos and onto the street, all of them owing National somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy thousand dollars in unpaid recoupable expenses, most of which was for the drugs, alcohol, and housing they'd used during the course of their careers.

Charlie was the only one still in Hollywood. Mike and the others had returned to Alabama long before and all of them were now working menial jobs in factories, in fast food stores, in retail outlets. Mike himself was now selling used cars the last Charlie had heard. Charlie, however, had never been able to quite admit to himself that it was really over, that his entire music career had come and gone in less than a year. He'd secured this apartment and gotten a job at the Speedy-Lube in West Hollywood and he'd kept his name as much on the minds of the National Records staffers as he could. Eventually, about a year ago, his desperate efforts began to pay off. Recognizing him as a talented bass player they'd started using him for the occasional overdub work on some of their entertainment industry recordings. The pay was a pittance and the work was far beyond intermittent but it was enough to make him feel like he was still a professional musician, enough to keep that depression far enough at bay so he wouldn't actually act on it.

It was getting harder and harder to do that lately though. With each day that went by, with each car that he lubed on the rack in his greasy overalls, the thoughts of taking the plunge off the top of the National Records building seemed more and more appealing. Every day that went by where he found himself sitting and drinking generic beer and smoking generic cigarettes in front of a twelve dollar TV set he'd bought from a fence, waiting for his next afternoon shift at the Speedy-Lube, the idea of moving onto the next life seemed like the only thing to do.

As he sat there, watching the Andy Griffith Show and smoking his generic cigarette, he was pondering what he was going to do with his day. He was supposed to be at the Speedy-Lube for work in one hour. He could do that or he could walk down to the National Records Building and jump off. He pondered this choice the same way other men debated whether or not they should burn a sick day to go fishing. He was actually leaning more and more toward the latter choice when someone began to knock on his door.

He almost didn't answer it. The only time anyone ever knocked on his door these days was when he or she mistook his apartment for the methamphetamine dealer's apartment next door. It was only when someone outside called him by name that he realized that he really did have a visitor. But who could it be? He'd paid his rent this month, hadn't he? He seemed to remember doing that.

He stood up and walked over the laundry piles and the debris, crushing two beer cans on the way and overturning a plate that contained the remains of frozen vegetable lasagna from four days ago. He opened the door and found five people standing out there, four men and a woman. It took him a second to credit what he was seeing.

"Jake?" he said. "Nerdly? Matt?"

"I'm here too, Charlie," Coop said. "But that's okay. I always go unnoticed. I'm just a fuckin' drummer after all."

"Oh... hi, Coop," he said, his head spinning. Intemperance had just showed up at his door. What the hell was going on?

"And I'm Pauline Kingsley," the woman said, stepping forward. "I'm the band's manager. Do you mind if we come in?"

"Uh... yeah, sure," he said, stepping aside and allowing them entrance. "Come on in."

The five of them stepped inside. They all wrinkled their noses as they caught a whiff of the smell. They looked around the filth of his apartment and looks of disgust began to appear. It occurred to Charlie that he should be ashamed of his apartment.

"Uh... sorry for the mess," he said with a shrug.

"I guess the maid has the month off, huh?" Matt asked.

"I don't have a maid," Charlie said. "I can barely afford the rent here as it is."

"Uh... yeah," Matt said, casting a glance at Jake.

"You guys wanna sit down?" Charlie asked them.

"Thank you," Jake said, looking at the furniture. "I think we'll stand. How you doing, Charlie? It's been a while."

"Yeah," he said. "I haven't seen anyone but Nerdly since the Grammy awards that time. That was when you got in that fight with La Diferencia."

"I remember," Jake said sourly.

"What are you guys doing here?" Charlie asked. "This is really kind of... weird, you know? How did you even know where I lived?"

"We got your address from National," Jake said. "We would've called first but apparently you don't have a phone?"

"No, it costs too much," he said. "So... what's up? What can I do for you?"

"We came to see if you could help us out with something," Jake said.

"What's that?"

"Well, I'm sure you heard about what happened to Darren, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Charlie said. "What a bummer. I never heard of anyone getting botulism from shooting up before. Is he going to be okay?"

"They tell us he'll recover eventually," Jake said. "It's going to be at least a year before he can tour again though."

"That sucks," Charlie said, pondering the stupidity of Darren Appleman for a moment. He had had it all, had been the bass player for the most popular hard rock band in America, and had thrown it away because he liked to shoot up with heroin. He had basically shitcanned something that Charlie would have killed for.

"Yeah, it does suck," Jake said. "And it puts us in kind of a bind too. You see, we're contractually obligated to go out on tour for our next album."

"Yeah, I heard about your next album," Charlie said. "It sounds like a rocker, man. And I loved that album cover you guys came up with."

"Thanks," Jake said. "So anyway, we were wondering if maybe you could help us out, if you're up to it that is?"

"Help you out with what?" Charlie asked, puzzled.

The five of them passed a look around.

"Are you fuckin' stoned or something?" Matt asked him.

"No," Charlie said carefully. "I haven't smoked any pot today. Why do you ask?"

"Uh, it's like this," Jake said. "We need to go out on tour within the next month or so. Our bass player is out for at least a year. You are a bass player. Is this starting to make sense now, Charlie?"

Charlie thought this over for a second and the light bulb finally went on. "You mean... you mean... you want me to play bass for you on your tour?" he asked carefully.

"Bing!" Matt yelled. "I think he's got it, Jake."

"Are you serious?" Charlie asked, unwilling to believe it just yet.

"We are dead serious," Pauline replied. "If you're interested in this I want you in Crow's office by the end of business hours tonight signing onto the Intemperance contract."

Charlie's jaw dropped. They were serious. They wanted him to sign a contract! But wait a minute? Could this be some sort of elaborate dream? Things like this just didn't happen to someone like him. He needed to make sure it wasn't a dream. In order to check this he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cheap disposable lighter. He lit it up and then held it under his forearm, burning the skin. "Oww!" he barked, jerking his arm away.

Jake, Matt, and Nerdly were all staring at him, shocked.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Matt asked.

"Just making sure this is real," he said. "Apparently it is."

"Holy shit," Matt said, shaking his head. "This guy is stranger than Nerdly, Jake."

"Then he oughtta fit right in with the rest of us," Jake said. He looked at Charlie. "So you're in?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, still wondering if somehow, someway, this wasn't really happening. "I'm in."

Handshakes were exchanged all around. Intemperance had found their new bass player.

Tallahassee, Florida

February 29, 1988

The crowd of 12,186 cheered loudly, all of them on their feet, stomping the ground or the bleachers, many holding lighters in the air, turning the floor of the auditorium into a sea of glowing orange stars. The shouted one word, repeatedly and in unison: more, more, more.

The band was just off stage, in the stage left area, listening to the cheers and stomping while they downed quart bottles of Gatorade to replenish the sweat that had poured out of them during the show. The main part of their set had just ended. They had played eighteen of their songs, seven from It's In The Book and eleven from their first three albums. There had also been an extended drum solo by Coop, a brief bass solo by Charlie (it was the band's way of introducing him to the crowd), a piano solo by Nerdly, and, of course, a ripping, multi-tempo guitar solo from Matt that had lasted nearly ten minutes. Total time for the main set had been ninety-six minutes � within two minutes of their tour average so far. Now it was time for the encore, a three-song set in which they would play Descent Into Nothing, their first hit; Point Of Futility, their biggest hit; and then, to close it all out, The Thrill Of Doing Business, the hard rocking title cut from their second album, which was a nationwide favorite on hard rock stations.

"We ready?" Matt asked the rest of them. He had to yell to be heard over the roar of the crowd.

Everyone nodded, indicating they were ready.

"Let's fuckin' do it then!" Matt yelled.

They dropped their Gatorade bottles in a trashcan and walked back out onto the stage. The stage lights had not been turned down and the crowd erupted into deafening cheers when they saw them.

Jake walked over and picked up his Les Paul � a brand new one that was done up in yellow and black instead of the classic sunburst pattern he'd used on the last tour. The guitar had been given to him by the Gibson company as part of his endorsement contract. The day the tour was officially scheduled and booked they had also wired $1.5 million to him.

Jake slung the guitar over his neck and pulled a pick out of the inlay. He stepped up to his microphone and looked out over the audience even though he could only see the first few rows of the mosh pit due to the lighting. "All right," he told them, feigning exasperation. "You talked us into it. We'll do a few more."

The cheers erupted anew and then faded back down as Charlie began to pick out a rhythm on his Fender bass guitar.

True to her word, Pauline had made sure that Charlie was covered under the master Intemperance contract just like the rest of the band. As such, he was allowed to sign endorsement contracts with anyone he pleased. On the advice of the other four band members Charlie had allowed Pauline to handle the negotiations and bargaining for such a contract. Cashing in on their fans' fascination for Darren Appleman's replacement she'd been able to get a bidding war going between Fender and Brogan. Fender had come out the winner when they'd agreed to a nine hundred thousand dollar endorsement fee plus twenty dollars for each Charlie Meyer signature model bass that was sold. Even with the taxes and Pauline's twenty percent taken out Charlie had been able to pay off all of his debt to National Records (it had been reduced by half the moment he signed the Intemperance contract), buy a new car, and put down a healthy down payment on a modest three bedroom house in Silver Lake, very near where Pauline lived.

He played his signature Fender bass now with love and pride, his skilled fingers fingerpicking the thick strings with his right hand, pushing the fretboard with his left. He brought the tempo up, faster and faster, building it to what seemed a tension inducing crescendo. Though the rest of the band had found Charlie to be more than a little odd as they'd gotten to know him these past months ("he's as crazy as a shithouse rat," Matt had proclaimed on more than one occasion) no one disputed his skill with his instrument. He was one hell of a bass player � in the same league as Geddy Lee of Rush, whom Jake and Matt both considered the best of all time.

Nerdly began to throw some piano into Charlie's rhythm, playing just over the top of it. Coop sounded in next, starting with single strikes on his floor toms at the top of the melody and then gradually adding more until he was fully supporting the rhythm. Matt and Jake came in next with Matt grinding out a harsh, almost brutal riff and Jake supporting it with a less distortion and less complexity. It was, overall, a classic Intemperance musical arrangement that had never been recorded before, that had been composed solely as the instrumental intro to the first encore song on this tour.

They played it for another twenty seconds, becoming louder, faster, and more complex with each repetition of the rhythm. Suddenly, everything stopped. The instruments went mute except for a deliberately prolonged reverterbration of the final note on Matt's guitar, drawing out, slowly fading away. Just before it faded completely Matt launched into the opening riff for Descent Into Nothing. Hearing this the crowd once again began to cheer wildly. As Jake stepped up to the microphone to begin singing the verses he saw two young women in the front row raise their shirts to show him their breasts. A bra and two pairs of slinky panties came flying in from another direction. He gave a little grin. Sometimes it was just great to be a rock star.

It was as he was singing the second chorus, just before the bridge and the guitar solo, when other objects came flying onto the stage, a group of ten or more, coming from several rows back, moving with considerable velocity.

Damn it, Jake had time to think before one of the objects, a black book a little larger than a pack of cigarettes, hit him directly in the chest hard enough to hurt. I thought we were going to get through a concert for once without this shit. The small book bounced off him and landed at his feet, its cover facing upward. Jake didn't need to look to know what was printed on it. The New Testament � The Gospels Of Jesus Christ. It was a small bible, the sort religious fanatics carried around to hand out to people they wanted to save.

The tour had opened November 15 in Bangor, Maine. From there they'd worked their way down the eastern seaboard to their current gig in Tallahassee, Florida. At every city they'd played in groups of religious protestors � the Family Values Coalition chief among them � tried to petition the various city councils and county boards of supervisors to get Intemperance's concert permit revoked. When that failed � and so far it had failed miserably at every destination � they picketed the venues for days in advance of the show, their signs reading things like BLASPHEMY IS NOT FREE SPEECH or MOTHERS, DON'T LET YOUR CHILDREN BE CORRUPTED! The picketing always reached a frenzied peak on the night of the show with hundreds of protestors waving signs and trying to hand bibles and/or anti-rock music tracts to the people waiting in line to get in. In almost every city so far there had been fights between concertgoers and protestors. In Boston there had been a full-scale riot outside the auditorium in which dozens had been arrested, dozens injured (including one pious young man who had been pantsed and then had the top of his sign shoved into his anus) and the cops had been forced to fire teargas in order to restore order.

No matter what the protestations, however, the shows went on in each and every venue, although thanks to the media coverage of the unruliness the cops had learned to deploy in force whenever Intemperance came to town, both outside the arenas and in.

It was during the show in Hartford, Connecticut that the bibles first started to fly in from the audience. Apparently there were members of the various religious groups who were purchasing tickets to the shows for the specific purpose of throwing bibles onto the stage. It had started as a spontaneous act but after realizing how great of an idea it was it had become more organized and persistent. The word had spread through whatever channels of communication these groups utilized that the way to show everyone what sinners Intemperance were was to infiltrate ten or fifteen people into each concert and hurl copies of the New Testament at them.

These flying bibles at one time or another had struck all five members of the band, with the three front men taking the brunt of the attacks. Jake had been hit in the head twice, in the hands three times, and in the body more than he could count. The press had reported on the bible-throwing incidents with the same lighthearted humor they'd displayed about the cross in Jake's yard or the muriatic acid in his hot tub � like it was all just good clean fun at a satanic rock band's expense. Or at least that had been the case until the show in Buffalo, New York when Jake had kicked one of the bibles off the stage to keep from slipping on it.

Jake Kingsley stomps on New Testament on stage, the headlines read the next day.

Or there had been the incident in Charleston, South Carolina, when a group of Intemperance fans in the mosh pit had taken offense to the bible throwers and had roughed them up a bit.

Intemperance fans savagely beat religious protestors, went out on the AP wire within hours.

Now, Jake left the bible where it had fallen, noting its position so he wouldn't accidentally slip on it later. The rest of the band did the same, with the exception of Coop, who was forced to brush one off the top of his left bass drum. They played on with the song and then launched into Point Of Futility. No more bibles came flying up but no less than ten pairs of panties did. Futility was a particular favorite among the female Intemperance fans.

During the guitar solo a drunken, sweaty, extremely attractive, and shirtless young woman jumped up onto the stage, rushed across it with lightening speed, and grabbed hold of Jake. She rubbed her bare breasts all over his arm, kissed him wetly on the cheek, and yelled something he couldn't understand into his ear before two members of the security team ran onstage, pried her loose, and dragged her off. Such incidents were common, usually occurring once or twice a week. About half of the girls rushed after Jake, the other half after Matt.

Jake ignored the incident the best he could. He never paused in his playing, didn't acknowledge her presence in anyway, didn't make any remarks as she was taken off the stage. He didn't react but such incidents always left him nervous and adrenalized. Though he had no objection to bare breasts being rubbed against his person, he had no idea who these women were or what they were going to do when they reached him. So far they had been nothing but drunken high school or college age girls with crushes, usually acting on a dare by their equally drunken friends. Occasionally the stage rush was a premeditated act, a chance for a girl to get her ten seconds in the spotlight, to be able to say she had touched Jake Kingsley or Matt Tisdale. There was always the possibility, however, that one of these girls might be one of the bible-throwers who had decided to take things to the next level and stick a knife in Jake's or Matt's chest or maybe pump a few rounds into one of them from a Saturday night special. After all, security at most of these venues was pretty much a joke. The audience was subjected to only cursory pat downs before being admitted.

We need to get the security guys to move a little faster, Jake thought as Matt's solo wound down and the final verse began. Half the time I don't even see these chicks coming until they're on top of me.

Point Of Futility ended. Jake bantered with the crowd for a few seconds and then they launched into The Thrill Of Doing Business. The crowd stomped and cheered, singing along with Jake through the entire tune. No more bibles came up and no more women rushed the stage. They ended the song with a final, drawn out flourish and then basked in the cheers as they took their bows. They then walked off the stage. The stage lights were turned off and the house lights were turned up. The crowd continued to call for more for a few minutes before gradually quieting as they realized the show was really over. In accordance with the first law of performing, Intemperance had left them wanting more. The Tallahassee show was at an end.

The band was led back through several backstage doorways to their dressing room. Here, a virtual feast had been laid out for them by a catering service hired by the venue. There were barbequed ribs, beef brisket with barbeque sauce, chicken breasts, baked beans, potato salad, corn on the cob, and asparagus spears. And, for the benefit of Charlie, who proclaimed himself a vegetarian, there was a thick pasta salad garnished with oregano. In addition to the food there were tubs full of beer, a small but well-stocked hard liquor bar, a tray with high-grade marijuana and a bong, and a silver case stocked with two grams of high-grade cocaine that Greg Gahn, their hypocritical Mormon tour manger, was not allowed to come within five feet of.

"Good show, guys, good show," Greg said as they grabbed beers or mixed drinks. "One of your best."

"You say that every fuckin' night, Greg," Matt said as he poured six ounces of Jack Daniels into a water glass and then put three ounces of Pepsi on top of it.

"And you don't even watch the shows, do you?" asked Jake. "You just sit back here and drool over the cocaine."

"I watch the show every night," Greg said. "At the very least I listen to it. And I have no interest in your cocaine. Heavenly Father has shown me the error of my ways. I haven't touched that devil's powder in almost two years now."

"God showed you the way, huh?" Matt asked. "The fact that our new contract stipulated that we wouldn't pay for your blow anymore didn't have anything to do with it?"

"Of course not," Greg said righteously. "I resent that you would even make that allegation."

Jake cracked open a beer and sat down in one of the chairs. He took a few drinks, enjoying the sensation of fresh alcohol slamming into his empty stomach. He drained the Corona in less than three minutes and then immediately opened another one. After half of this beer was in his stomach he finally got up and began putting food onto a plate.

"How's that pasta salad?" Jake asked Charlie a few minutes later as he gnawed on one of the ribs.

"Just the way I like it," Charlie replied. "Cold and sterile."

"Fuckin' sterile," Matt said, rolling his eyes and giving a little shake of the head.

One of Charlie's many oddities was his obsessive phobia regarding germs, microbes, amoebas, and parasitic insects. He carried disinfectant wipes with him everywhere and wiped down every surface that any part of his body would have to come into contact with. He wiped each beer bottle before he opened it, every piece of silverware he used, every toilet seat, toilet handle, and bathroom sink. He wiped his bass guitar down before doing the sound check each day and instructed his assistant to do the same before each actual performance. He washed his hands no less than thirty times each day, using a special anti-bacterial soap he carried in the same container as his wipes. Even his vegetarianism was related to this phobia.

"So are you like a vegetarian because you don't like that people kill animals or because you think meat is unhealthy?" Matt had asked him back in the beginning, when they'd started introducing him to the songs they would be playing on the tour.

"Neither," Charlie had replied.

"Neither? Then why don't you eat meat?"

"Tapeworms," Charlie said, as if that explained everything.

"Tapeworms?" Matt asked. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Do you know what tapeworms are?" Charlie asked, shuddering at the very thought of them. "They're these worms that get into your intestinal tract and grow there, eating everything you eat, getting bigger and bigger and bigger. Sometimes they can get eighteen feet long."

"That is pretty fuckin' gross," Matt had to agree. "But what the hell does that have to do with being a vegetarian?"

Charlie looked at him as if he were an idiot. "The number one cause of tapeworm infestation is the consumption of meat products," he said. "All it takes is one little tapeworm cyst � something that's almost microscopic in size � and the next thing you know you've got a sixteen footer sucking up all your nutrients. Uh uh. That shit ain't gonna happen to me. If I don't eat meat, it never will."

"You realize, of course," said Matt, "that you live in fucking America, right? This ain't goddamn Zimbabwe or The fucking Gambia. I ain't never heard of an American getting a tapeworm from eating a burger or a steak."

"And I find that particularly ominous," Charlie whispered. "Someone has to be the first, don't they?"

They really couldn't argue with this logic. In truth, they didn't even want to try.

After eating their fill from the food the band members began cycling in and out of the shower in the next room, washing Doreen's hairspray out of their hair and changing into fresh jeans and t-shirts. Once they were all clean they smoked a few bonghits and drank a few more drinks. Coop, Nerdly, and Matt all snorted some cocaine. Jake abstained from the blow because he was making a conscious effort to imbibe in it as little as possible on this tour. He didn't want to have to rely on it to keep him awake during the evening party hours or during the day when they were trying to do their autograph and interview sessions on little sleep. The coke was something that was just a little too pleasurable and he feared having to go into rehab because of overuse. Charlie simply didn't use cocaine at all, claiming it wasn't sterile enough to be placed into his body.

"All right, Jack," Matt said to Jack Ferguson, the head of tour security. "You got some sluts staging out there for us?"

"Naturally," Jack said. It was he and his team who were responsible for finding a selection of attractive and slutty young women in each city to help entertain the band members after the show. Their requirements were simple. The women had to be hot, willing to perform any sexual act asked of them, be it publicly or privately, and they had to be willing to give a blowjob to a security team member in order to prove they were proper Intemperance groupie material. During the first two tours Jack had always brought the girls back immediately after the show. During the previous tour and during this one, at the band's request, he kept them just outside so the band could eat and shower in peace.

"How many you got out there?" Matt asked him.

"I have twelve young ladies who are anxious to make your acquaintance."

"Twelve?" Matt said, pondering. He looked at Nerdly. "Is that gonna be enough?"

"I don't know," Nerdly said. "I'm going for a four by two tonight."

"A four by two?" Matt asked. "That's fuckin' impossible. No fuckin' way it can be done!"

"Would you care to place a wager on that hypothesis?" Nerdly asked.

"Yeah," Matt said. "I'll put my fuckin money where my mouth is. A thousand bucks!"

"I accept your proposal," Nerdly said.

"And I'm going for it too," Matt said. "Jack, I think you might need to scrape up a few more bitches for us."

Jack sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

What Matt and Nerdly were talking about was a contest that had developed between them over the past week. It had started when Nerdly had boasted during the bus ride between Raleigh and Charleston that he had "copulated with" three women in his hotel room the night before.

"So fuckin' what?" Matt had asked. "I had eight of them lined up one night and I plugged every one of 'em."

"No, you fail to understand my accomplishment," Nerdly replied. "I copulated to completion with all three women last night. And I left each of them satisfied."

"You mean you fuckin' came in all three of them?" Matt asked. "And made each of them come too?"

"That is exactly what I am saying," Nerdly said, a smug expression on his face.

"Fuckin' bullshit!" Matt said. "Three comes in one night ain't possible."

"Maybe not for you," Nerdly said. "I, however, am blessed with superior sexual regeneration genes."

And so it had started. Matt challenged Nerdly to prove his claim by doing it again the next night. Jake didn't ask for details but apparently Nerdly was able to convince Matt that what he boasted of was reality. Matt then attempted to duplicate the feat the next evening and, after nearly three hours and six lines of cocaine, he was able to. That had led to further challenges in which each of the groupies participating in the contest were to be made to have two orgasms instead of just one. Thus the terminology of three by two and now, four by two.

"I need some carbohydrates if I'm going to do this," Nerdly said. He got up and heaped a mound of Charlie's pasta salad on a plate.

"And don't even try to fake no fuckin' orgasm, Nerdly," Matt warned. "If I'm gonna pay up for this shit I wanna see all four of them fuckin' rubbers before you toss 'em."

"Jesus, Matt," Jake said. "That's pretty fuckin' gross."

"And kind of gay too," Coop added.

"Hey," said Matt, "we're talkin' about a thousand bones here. It ain't like I'm gonna touch the fuckin' rubber."

"How about you, Jake?" Nerdly asked. "You up to try a four by two?"

"No, I don't think so," Jake said. "Sex should be an exclusive, giving act reserved for two people who care deeply about each other. It shouldn't be a contest."

All four band members stared at him for a moment and then started cracking up. After a moment, Jake joined them.

"No, seriously," Matt said. "Why don't you start out slow and try a three by one first?"

"I've done the three women thing before," Jake said. "I like one or two a lot better. With three you kind of get into sensory overload. I have, however, done more than my share of two by fours and one by eights."

"Try a two by six then," Matt suggested. "I'll give you a thousand bucks if you can pull that off without the bitches eating each other."

"Maybe after I get back from LA," he said. "I'm gonna skip the party tonight and catch some sleep. Remember, they're dragging my ass out of here at six o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Oh yeah," Matt said. "Almost forgot about that."

There was a hint of resentment in his voice, partly directed at Jake but mostly directed at National Records. The Grammy Awards were taking place in two days and Intemperance � despite all of the controversy of the past year � had been nominated again, although this time for only a single award: Best Rock Song By A Duet Or Group. The song that had been nominated was I Am Time, which had turned into a surprise hit since the album's release and was threatening to surpass Point Of Futility as the band's all time best selling single. Since Jake had written the song and since National knew that it didn't stand a chance in hell of actually winning the award, they were only paying to fly Jake back to Los Angeles long enough to attend the actual ceremony (the pre-Grammy party had been held the previous week and none of the Intemperance members had been in attendance). The rest of the band would head on to Fort Lauderdale and enjoy two days off before their scheduled concert there on March 3.

"Can you believe how much people love that song?" Coop asked, shaking his head in bewilderment. "What are you gonna do if it actually wins, Jake? You got a speech all set up?"

"You'd better fuckin' mention the rest of us if it wins," Matt said.

"We ain't gonna win anything over Bruce Springsteen," Jake said. "Captain America will always triumph over the bible stomping girlfriend beater."

"I guess you're right," Coop said. "That's the way the fuckin' world works, man."

In truth, Jake was just as astonished by the runaway success of I Am Time as anyone. It had been intended as nothing more than a deep cut on the album, something not meant for radio airplay. National had never even considered releasing it as a single, not even as the B-side. The band had not intended to play the tune during the tour since it would require Matt to sound check and play a harmonica during each performance. But within a month of It's In The Book's release to the public some DJ in Trenton, New Jersey had played the song on the radio during a request hour show. All who heard it had been so impressed they started phoning the station and asking for more plays of it. Soon, other stations began to play it and by the time the band was just finishing up tour rehearsal and getting ready to hit the road it was the most-requested tune nationwide, passing up even It's In The Book � the song � which National absolutely refused to release as a single so people would be forced to buy the album in order to get a copy of it.

National had no such compunction about releasing Time as a single once the potential of it became apparent. They quickly produced a million copies of the song on 45-rpm vinyl and released them for sale. The song shot up to number one in less than two weeks, cutting across every demographic there was. Sixteen-year-old girls, college age men, and middle-aged women were purchasing copies of the song as fast as they could get their hands on it. Reviewers loved it as well, even those who had slammed everything Intemperance had done in the past. They touted it as a unique and endearing mixture of hard rock and classic blues with timeless lyrical development. National had strongly suggested the band work the song into the tour � which they did. They had also insisted on a video to accompany the tune. And so, with less than a week before the start of the tour, Jake and Erica Wilde, who had produced every Intemperance video since I Found Myself Again, quickly composed and shot a video that featured clips of home movies from the band members as children, shots of people dying in convalescent hospitals, and shots of the band lip-syncing the song in their rehearsal warehouse. At Jake and Matt's direction Charlie's face was never shown in the video, only his hands, legs, and body on the bass. This left the viewers with the impression that it was actually Darren Appleman who was playing bass on the tune. The video was expected to be nominated at the next MTV awards.

As Jake had pointed out, however, Time was not expected to win a Grammy. But since it had been nominated so at least one member of the band was expected to be at the ceremony tomorrow. Since Jake was the most visible member of the band, the voice of the band and the member who ended up in the spotlight the most, he had drawn the duty. He was flying out of the Tallahassee Airport on a commercial flight early the next morning in order to attend, be seen by the cameras, be interviewed once or twice, and then returned on another commercial flight to Fort Lauderdale the next day.

The twelve groupies came into the dressing room and soon the pre-party was in progress. Jake tried to stay off in the corner where he could drink beer in peace but this was not really a realistic goal. The groupies kept circulating over in his direction to talk to him, to tell him how bitchin' they thought he was, and to offer him various sex acts. Eventually he let one of them give him a blowjob just to keep the others occupied.

Soon they boarded up on the band bus with the groupies accompanying them (Jack had gone out to the parking lot and dug up six more, which irritated him since none of these six were required to pay the admission price). They drove to the Sheraton Hotel downtown and spilled out, taking three trips on the elevator to get everyone up to the top floor where each band member had their own suite.

The party tonight was in Nerdly's suite, which just happened to be directly next to Jake's suite. Jake went and laid down in his bed but the constant thumping of music, shouts from Matt and Nerdly, and excited screams of young groupies prevented him from drifting off right away.

"I oughtta call the fuckin' cops on them," Jake said sourly just after one o'clock in the morning. Finally he buried his head under two pillows and was able to drown the decibels down enough to drift off.

It seemed like only moments later that his five-thirty wake up call was jerking him from that slumber.

National Records did not think it necessary to pay for a private flight to return Jake to Los Angeles, nor did Jake wish to waste twelve thousand dollars chartering one himself. He was booked first class on a 727 that left Tallahassee Airport at seven o'clock in the morning. The problem was, there were no direct flights from Tallahassee to Los Angeles so he was flown to Dallas/Fort Worth first and had to wait for an hour for his connecting flight.

He was in the bar and smoking a cigarette in the first class lounge at DFW. He had slept most of the first leg of his flight and was now feeling jet-lagged and disoriented. It was only eight-thirty local time but it felt like eleven o'clock to Jake. He treated this malady as he did most things that plagued him these days. He had a few drinks. The bartender was an Intemperance fan and was setting him up with some fairly potent rum and cokes despite the early hour.

The lounge and the bar area within it were moderately crowded with rich travelers but no one bothered him. The average first-class traveler tended to not be someone who listened to Intemperance or who followed the ins and outs of celebrities. He was therefore quite surprised when a female voice from behind him suddenly called him by name.

"Jake Kingsley?" the voice asked. "I worship the very ground you walk on. Do you think you could sign my left breast?"

Jake had a grin on his face as he slowly turned his barstool toward the owner of the voice. The smell of vanilla in the air and the heavy Hispanic accent on the words had already derailed her joke. It was Celia Valdez standing next to him, an amused smile on her face. She was dressed in a manner Jake had never seen her before. She was wearing a pair of baggy jeans and an even baggier sweatshirt that served to hide her impressive bosom and her curves. She had large, dark sunglasses on her eyes and a Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap upon her head. Her luxuriant brunette hair had been tied in a tight ponytail that was sticking out through the hole in the back of the cap.

"How did you recognize me?" Jake asked her, returning her smile. "I have my disguise on." His disguise was very similar to hers. He wore jeans, a sweatshirt, dark glasses, and a baseball cap he'd bought in Cabo San Lucas. It was a disguise that fooled very few people.

"I felt your vibe," she told him. "It's good to see you, Jake." She held out her arms for a hug.

Surprised, Jake supplied her with one. He hadn't been aware that they were on hugging terms. Her body felt soft and very pliable against him. He felt the brief press of her breasts against his chest and the smell of her vanilla wafted strongly into his nose. He savored the sensation and released her when it seemed the time was right.

"Fancy running into you here," she said, sitting down at the barstool next to him.

"No kidding," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"The same thing you are, I suspect. We were out on tour but I have to make an appearance at the awards tonight so they can reject us properly."

"Oh yes," he said. "Well at least we kept our rejection date for the ceremony, if not the pre-party."

"I wouldn't be rejected with anyone else," she said. "Can I have one of those?" She pointed to his cigarette pack.

He raised his eyebrows a little but picked up the pack and pulled out a cigarette. He handed it to her and she put it in her mouth. He flicked his lighter and held it to the end. She inhaled expertly, taking a deep drag and blowing it slowly out over the bar.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't smoke very much but every once in a while I really need one. The flight in was simply horrible. We had turbulence almost the entire way, including a few jolts that made me start wondering if the plane was going to hold together." She shook her head. "I really hate flying."

"Where'd you come from?" Jake asked, taking a drag from his own smoke.

She tapped the emblem on the front of her baseball cap. "Milwaukee. It was colder than a witch's tit there, I'm here to tell you. I bought this hat in the airport just before we took off. What do you think? Will anyone know me?"

"No more than they'd know me," he said.

"Damn," she said. "I thought it was better than that."

He laughed. "Are you on Flight 109?" he asked.

"First class from DFW to LAX," she confirmed. "What's your seat number?"

"Row six, window," he said. "You?"

"Row eleven, aisle."

"Well, I'll wave at you on the way to the bathroom," he told her.

"And I'll shoot spitballs at you with my straw while you're reading."

He laughed again. "Deal. Can I buy you a drink?"

She nodded dramatically. "I thought you'd never ask."

Jake got the bartender's attention. He came over and his eyes lit up as he recognized Jake's companion. "Celia Valdez," he said, surprised. "I thought you and Jake didn't like each other."

"We don't," she told him. "But he's buying me a drink anyway. How about a double gin martini, very dry, with two olives and an onion?"

"Of course," he said, seemingly taken aback by her request. Nevertheless he turned to his bottles and began constructing it.

"Breaking out the heavy artillery, huh?" Jake asked.

"I think a nice buzz might help me enjoy my flight a little more. I had one on the first leg but I'm starting to lose it now."

"I'll tell him to keep them coming," Jake said.

"I have absolutely no money on me," she said. "You know how it is on these tours under these contracts, don't you? Are you sure you can afford to support my booze binge?"

"I think I can swing it," he told her.

"Good," she said with a grin. "I hate to impose but... well... actually that's a lie. I love to impose. This whole thing is kind of an adventure for me. It's not often I get to travel somewhere by myself. A pity it has to be on one of these flying deathtraps they call jet airliners. Humans really aren't supposed to fly, you know."

"You'll be fine as long as we don't crash," he said.

"Thank you. You're very comforting."

The bartender put her drink in front of her and Jake paid for it, leaving him a healthy tip.

"Thank you, Jake," he said, quickly making the money disappear.

"No problem," Jake replied. "Whenever you see one of our drinks starting to get low, you come over and replace it."

"Yes, sir," he said. He then proved his true worth as a bartender and made himself scarce.

"So," Celia said after downing half her martini in one drink, "I've been following the entertainment news. You've had yourself quite a year, haven't you?"

"You could call it that," Jake said. "I assume you read the article penned by my now-famous ex-girlfriend?"

"I read it," she said. "It seems you're quite the asshole, aren't you?"

"That's what she says," Jake said. "I'm surprised you wanted to come sit with me after reading that."

She gave a cynical smile. "If there's one thing I've learned since starting on this little venture of recording star, it's that there is little relationship between the truth and what is printed in any form of media. I tend to reserve judgement on things like that until I've heard from the horse's mouth."

"You're a very wise woman," he said.

"I am," she confirmed. "So, now that I have the horse in front of me, what's the story with that chiquita? Did you really beat her up and rape her?"

"Yeah," he said, "but she was asking for it."

Celia's face clouded in shock for a moment and then, seeing Jake's eyes, she burst out in laughter. "Oh Jesus," she said. "You had me going for a few seconds there."

"Sorry," he said, grinning. "I couldn't resist. Anyway, there was very little that could be called truth in that article." He gave her a brief rundown on what the relationship between he and Michelle Borrows had actually been like, including their final encounter on the boat, although he used Nerdly terms to describe the final sex act.

"You orally copulated her, huh?" Celia asked with a grin.

"Right," Jake said. "And then she broke up with me right after."

"She didn't return the favor first?" Celia asked.

"Nope," he said sadly.

"You ate her pussy out to completion and then she broke up with you while you were still standing there with a boner?"

Jake actually blushed a little at her terminology. The media liked to portray Celia as sweet and innocent � they even hinted that she was a virgin � and Jake found it hard to equate that image with the woman now sitting in front of him. "Well... yes," he said. "That's pretty much what happened, although the boner went away when she started laying down her ultimatum."

"That's just a complete lack of moralistic upbringing if you ask me," Celia said, shaking her head sadly. "It's a wonder you didn't rape her and then throw her off the boat."

"The thought certainly crossed my mind," he admitted. "Instead, I went back inside and started partying. That was the first night I ever... you know... did it with a groupie."

"Ahh yes, the groupies," she said. "The guys in my band enjoy their company on a fairly regular basis as well, although we try our best to keep that quiet."

"Understandable," Jake said.

"I saw the pictures of you and that redheaded groupie down in Mexico," she said. "It seems your girlfriend didn't care too much for those pictures?"

"No, she really didn't," Jake said sourly.

"A pity. She seemed like a very nice girl when you introduced her to us at the party last year."

Jake shrugged and then looked down at Celia's left hand where a large diamond engagement ring was sitting on her finger. "Enough about my sordid and fractured personal life. Let's hear about yours. You broke up with your manager boyfriend two years ago, right?"

"Right," she said. "It turns out he was cheating on me quite regularly � with men."

Jake nodded, unsurprised. Her first boyfriend had been a Hollywood talent manager after all � a profession in which heterosexuals were the minorities. "So you broke up with him and fired him?"

"All in the same conversation," she confirmed. "It wasn't pretty. He went all clich� on me and told me I'd never work in this town again." She laughed. "What was funny was that we were in Cleveland when we had the conversation."

Jake laughed with her. "And have you worked in Cleveland since then?"

"No," she said, giggling. "I can't say that I have, so maybe it wasn't so clich� after all."

Their drinks had gotten down to the danger level. The bartender quickly came over and mixed them up two fresh ones. He then made another discreet departure from auditory range.

"So now you're engaged to Greg Oldfellow," Jake said. "Congratulations."

Greg Oldfellow was a thirty-year-old character actor who specialized in playing clean-cut young men who suddenly find themselves having to rise to a challenge of some sort. He had played a rookie cop faced with corruption in the department, a young priest dealing with a homicidal parishioner, and a young divorced man engaged in a custody dispute with his vengeful, drug-addicted ex-wife. He and Celia had met the same way Jake and Mindy Snow had met � at one of the actor's movie premiers. They had been the media darlings of the past six months and no issue of American Watcher was considered complete without at least one shot of the two of them in a restaurant or at the beach or walking hand in hand in Beverly Hills.

"Thank you," Celia said. "Greg's a good guy."

"Have you set a date yet?"

She shook her head, letting a sour expression cross her face. "He won't set one until we get the prenuptial agreement hammered out. It's kind of a sore spot with me, as you can imagine."

"I can imagine," he said, although he was able to see things from Oldfellow's point of view as well. "Is he going to be at the ceremony?"

"No," she said. "He's in Ireland filming his new movie. He offered to break away to join me but I told him not to bother because I wasn't going to win anything anyway. He seemed like he was actually relieved about that."

"At least he made the offer," Jake said.

A female voice on the overhead announced the Flight 109 to Los Angeles would begin boarding in five minutes.

"Oops," Celia said, quickly downing her entire drink in two swallows. She burped and then flushed. "Excuse me," she said with an embarrassed giggle.

Jake laughed at her. "No problem," he said. "I've been known to do that on occasion myself."

"I got time for one more smoke before they seal me into the deathtrap," she said. She pointed at Jake's cigarette pack again. "May I?"

He took one out and handed it to her, once again flicking his lighter and holding it to the end.

"Thanks," she said, taking a deep drag.

Jake nodded and sipped from his drink. "Well, it may be only for two nights, but it'll be nice to sleep in my own bed again. I'm really looking forward to that after two months of hotel beds."

Celia frowned. "I wish I could say the same," she said. "It's just another hotel bed for me."

"A hotel bed?" he asked. "Why are you sleeping in a hotel?"

"First time contract, remember?" she asked. "They lease a condo for me when we're off tour and then lease it out to someone else while I'm touring. Didn't they used to do that to you?"

"Yeah, they did," he said. "I guess I suppressed the memory. What about Greg's house? Why don't you stay there?"

"We're not married yet," she said. "It wouldn't befit my image to sleep at my boyfriend's house without benefit of wedlock now, would it?"

"But he's not even there," Jake said.

"It doesn't matter to the image people who set up my life for me. If I were to sleep there now when he wasn't home it would imply that I'd slept there before, when he was home."

"That's insane," Jake said. "So they just send you off to some hotel?"

"Not even a good one," she said. "All the better places are booked up. They've got me in a standard room at some place down in Long Beach."

"Long Beach? Holy shit. That's no way to treat the talent."

She shrugged. "What can you do?"

"Why don't you come crash at my place?" he suggested.

"At your place?" she said, raising her eyebrows.

"I'm on the up and up here," he assured her. "I have a fully equipped guest room, complete with a private bathroom. I'm only a few miles from Hollywood. My housekeeper is making me a steak dinner tonight. I'd be honored if you would join me for it."

She shook her head. "My A&R guy would flip out if I even suggested that," she said. "Can you imagine what the tabloids would say if they found out I was staying at Jake Kingsley's house?"

"Do you always wait for the approval of your A&R guy before you do anything?" Jake asked.

"Well..." she said thoughtfully. "He is looking out for my best interests."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"No, but it sounded good."

"Sometimes, Celia, you just have to do what you want to do. If you let your record company dictate where you go and what you do all the time you'll find yourself without much humanity after awhile. You're an American citizen and..."

"Actually," she cut in, "I'm not."

"Oh... yeah, of course," Jake said. "Well... anyway, you're a Venezuelan citizen living in American so you're entitled to basic rights. One of them is to sleep wherever you damn well please. What's the worst they can do to you? They'll be mad, they'll tell you what you did was wrong, they'll try to threaten you, but there's really nothing they can threaten you with. I went through this crap with them when I was dating Mindy Snow and all it did was to let them know that they can't push me around."

Celia was looking thoughtful as she listened to this speech. "You do make a good point there, Jake," she said.

"Defy authority, Celia," he said. "Sometimes it's the only way to get respect."

"You're right," she said, determination showing on her face now.

"So I'll see you for dinner tonight?"

"Damn right," she said. "Screw what those assholes think I should do."

"Now you're talking," he said.

"Uh... but how do I get to your house? I don't have a car either."

The plane touched down at LAX at 10:30 AM local time, although to Jake it felt like mid-afternoon. He and Celia had not talked to each other during the trip across the southwestern United States. It just wasn't a good idea for either of them to be seen getting too chummy with each other in public. Though Jake didn't really care what people thought about him there was no sense in starting any rumors. The way the entertainment media worked all it would take would be one stewardess telling her friend that Jake and Celia had been talking to each other on the flight and by the time it made it to print they would be screwing each other in the bathroom while Jake choked her out.

They did manage to maneuver next to each other in the jetway as they exited the aircraft into the terminal. Celia was not exactly steady on her feet. Jake wasn't surprised. Every time he'd turned around to glance at her or walked to the bathroom she'd had a drink in her hand.

"Safe on terra firma," she said, relief in her voice. "Right where I belong."

"Have you ever thought," Jake said, "that if you don't like flying that you maybe should have picked a different career?"

She chuckled. "If I would've known it involved flying so much I probably would have," she said.

"We still on?" he asked.

"We're still on. I'll check in, take a nap, and then call Tory and let him know what he can do with his hotel room."

"Very good," Jake said. "Call me when you're ready for the limo to pick you up."

"Got your number right here," she said, patting the pocket of her jeans.

They separated from each other and walked out into the crowded airport terminal. Paparazzi were already there. They had been staking out the airport for the past twenty-four hours hoping to catch shots of the various celebrities who would be flying in for the Grammy Awards. Both Jake and Celia had their pictures snapped multiple times. A note was made by multiple reporters that they had arrived on the same flight. But since it was assumed that the two bands hated each other ever since the fight at the Grammy Awards three years before, their simultaneous arrival was written off as nothing more than what it was: a coincidence.

Since Jake had nothing but his small carry-on bag to deal with he quickly made it through the gauntlet of fans, Intemperance haters, paparazzi, and entertainment reporters. A limousine belonging to Buxfield Limousine Service was waiting for him out in the pick-up section. Jake climbed and less than thirty minutes later he was home for the first time in months.

Elsa was pleased to see him. She gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek and presented him with a fresh rum and coke she'd constructed at the bar.

"Thanks, Elsa," he told her. "How have things been going here?"

"It's rather boring without you here, Jake," she said. "There's no one to clean up after, no one to cook for, no laundry to do except mine. I feel almost guilty for taking your money while you're not in residence."

"Almost guilty?" he asked.

"Almost," she confirmed with a smile. "I've had my grandchildren over several times on the weekend. That helps a little. Thank you for giving me permission to do that."

"My house is your house, Elsa," he said. "You know that. How are they doing anyway? Still talking that American slang to you?"

Elsa frowned severely. Though her two grandkids were the loves of her life and the things she was most proud of, she was quite exasperated at times with their manner of speech. Both had grown up in Orange County and were being educated in public schools. Neither had any trace of the English accent their grandmother and their parents had and both had shrugged off the proper English they'd been taught in favor of the more colorful vernacular of modern urban teens. "I don't even know what they're saying half the time," she said. "Just last weekend Gerald informed me that there was going to be a 'serious booty-call out on that field come Thursday night'. What exactly does that mean, Jake?"

Jake smiled. "Does Gerald play soccer?"

"As a matter of fact he does," Elsa confirmed.

"I believe he was saying that his team was going to emerge overwhelmingly victorious at their next match-up."

Elsa's eyes widened. "That's what it means?" she asked. "Are you serious?"

"I believe I am," he said. "Of course booty-call does have a quite different meaning as well."

"And what might that be?" she asked.

"I really don't think you want to know that, Elsa."

She sighed. "I suspect you are correct in that," she said.

Jake looked around at his house. It was immaculate but he did not tell Elsa that it looked nice. She would have been insulted by the suggestion that there was ever a time when it didn't look nice. "I invited a friend over for dinner tonight," he said. "Is that okay?"

Elsa's brow furled. "For tonight?" she asked. "Jake, I only have one steak marinating."

"Don't you have another one you can throw some marinade down on?"

"Well... yes, but in order to properly absorb the flavor and to best utilize the tenderization properties it must marinate for twenty-four hours minimum."

"Throw some marinade on it now and I'll eat the under-soaked one," he suggested.

Elsa clearly did not like this plan but there was little else for her to do. "I'd better start working on it right now. I do wish you would give me advance notice of this sort of thing, Jake."

"Sorry, Elsa," he said. "It's kind of a spur of the moment thing."

"Is it a young lady?" she asked. "Will you be requiring a scent enhancement in the hot tub?"

"It is a young lady," he said, "but you can probably hold off on the scent thing. She's just a friend, and an engaged friend at that. I don't plan on any hanky-panky."

She gave him a dubious look.

"She'll be staying the night in the guest room as well," Jake said.

"In the guest room?" Elsa said, the dubiousness deepening into outright disbelief.

"In the guest room," he confirmed. "Really, Elsa. She's just a friend. And I know I don't have to tell you this but I should reiterate that if her presence here is known people really wouldn't understand. This is top secret stuff."

"Of course," she said. "Just who is this woman anyway?"

"Celia Valdez," Jake said.

"Celia Valdez?" she asked. "Didn't you have an altercation with her once?"

"It's all in the past," he said. "You go take care of that steak. I'm gonna go upstairs and catch a few hours."

"Very well," Elsa said. "And don't forget to put your laundry in the hamper."

"I won't Elsa," he promised.

"And empty those pockets! You know how I hate finding your cigarette lighters and prophylactic wrappers in the washing machine!"

"Yes, Elsa," he said, heading for the stairs.

It was good to be home.

Jake slept until just after four o'clock. He awoke feeling refreshed and vibrant for the first time in weeks. He shaved, showered, dressed in fresh clothes, and then went downstairs and fixed a stiff rum and coke that he took out onto the patio to enjoy with a cigarette.

He began to wonder if Celia had changed her mind about staying at his house. She had been more than a little tipsy when she'd accepted his invitation and now that she'd had time to sober up he thought it likely that the pressure her A&R team would be putting on her might derail the rebellious intentions he'd planted in her brain. He wasn't quite sure why he was looking forward to Celia's visit. He had no romantic aspirations toward her, nor did he have any serious thoughts about a meaningless sexual encounter with her. She was engaged to another man and she did not seem the least bit interested in him either sexually or romantically. Still, he enjoyed being around her. They seemed to share an ease of conversation that he'd never experienced with a woman unrelated to him before. She was, as he'd told Elsa, a friend. The brief conversations they'd shared in the past were something he remembered with fondness. There was a depth to her that he wanted to explore and expand upon. He would be disappointed if she didn't show tonight.

The phone rang just after 4:30. Elsa brought it to him, explaining formally that a "Ms. Valdez" was requesting to speak with him.

"Thanks, Elsa," he said, taking it. He put it to his ear and said, "Celia?"

"The one and only," she replied. "Are you ready to send some of your people to come get me?"

"I am," he said. He had called Buxfield Limousines before lying down and asked them to keep a car available for this mission. He had also let them know of the top-secret nature of this pick-up. "Did you call your people and let them know you were going AWOL?"

"I did," she said. "It would be safe to say that I've ignited quite the shitstorm. In the past two hours I've been threatened, begged to, threatened again, and then ordered to stay in my rented room like the good little spic I've always been."

"They called you a spic?" Jake asked.

"That was one of the kinder things I was called. I could really use a drink, Jake. How soon can that limo get here?"

"Where are you at?"

She gave him the name of her hotel.

"I'll have someone there in thirty minutes," he said. "Stay in your room until the driver calls for you to come down."

"I'll be eagerly awaiting," she said.

"And feel free to start drinking in the limo," he said. "You'll have to have a few to catch up with me."

"Sounds like a plan," she said.

At six o'clock Jake went to the small storage compartment next to the house and removed a bag of charcoal briquettes and a bottle of lighter fluid. He carried them over to his barbeque island and dumped a good portion of the briquettes inside. He drenched them in lighter fluid and then had a cigarette while he waited for it to soak in. When he was done smoking he struck a match and lit up the charcoal. Within a minute it was blazing brightly, sending black smoke up into the air.

"Mmm," a voice said from behind him. "I really love the smell of a barbeque being lit. It reminds me of camping trips with my parents back in Venezuela."

Jake turned and beheld Celia. She was dressed in a tighter pair of jeans then she'd worn on the airplane and a form-fitting burgundy sweater that outlined her breasts quite nicely. Her hair was flowing loosely over her shoulders. She had a drink in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in the other.

"You've arrived," Jake said. "And you're looking quite lovely as well. Did Elsa get you that drink?"

"She did," Celia confirmed. "She's a very nice lady. She introduced herself to me, gave me a tour of your house, and then made me this drink. Are you sure she's not going to tell anyone that I was here?"

"Absolutely positive," Jake said. "Elsa has no connection whatsoever to any media conglomerates or record company executives. I pay her very good money and, in return, she gives me complete loyalty."

"That's a concept," she said, walking a little closer. "My housekeeper is some record company puta who reports everything I say and do to my A&R guy."

"Does puta mean what I think it means?" he asked.

"It means 'whore'," she said. "But even that translation doesn't do it justice. It's the vilest manifestation of 'whore' currently available in Espanola. It means 'gutter whore', the worst of the worst of that particular breed."

"I see," Jake said. "I'll add that term to my lexicon of Spanish terms, filing it right next to cabron, which is my current favorite."

"We spics do know how to insult," she said, taking a drink of her booze.

"And I totally respect that," Jake said. "Did Elsa tell you about her grandchildren? She usually can't shut up about that."

"She mentioned that her granddaughter is a La Diferencia fan."

"A very big La Dif fan if I understood correctly," Jake said. "Do you think you could write a little note to her and autograph it? Elsa would never ask in a million years � it wouldn't be proper decorum, as she says � but I have no problem asking."

"Sure," Celia said, "I'd love to, but won't she wonder how Elsa got it? Remember, no one is supposed to know I'm here."

"I'll have Elsa tell her I got it at the Grammy Awards. Just remember to postdate it."

"Deal."

The briquettes were now blazing away quite nicely and seemed in little danger of burning out. Jake put the lighter fluid away and then brushed the black charcoal dust off his hands. "Shall we go inside?" he asked. "It'll take about forty minutes for them to burn down."

"Sure," she said, following him to the back door. "Do you do all the barbequing?"

"I do. Elsa owns the kitchen and everything in it but the barbeque is my domain."

They went inside and sat down at the bar in the entertainment room. Jake washed his hands in the sink and then mixed himself a fresh drink.

"This is such a nice house, Jake," Celia said. "Seeing it has made me realize what a crappy contract we're under. You own your own house and I'm assigned to mine. You're probably collecting millions in royalties and endorsement fees and I'm more than eighty thousand dollars in debt to Aristocrat Records. How did you do it?"

"How did I do what?"

"Get National to renegotiate your contract?"

This was a very touchy subject. The new contract had a strict non-disclosure clause in it, violation of which could force reversion to the old contract. "Who says they renegotiated anything?" Jake asked.

"Oh come on," she said, her green eyes sparkling. "Everyone in the business knows they did. The very fact that you were able to buy this house is as good as proof you aren't operating under a first-time contract anymore."

"You do have a good point there," he admitted.

"Of course I do. So tell me a story. How did you get the most tight-assed cabrons in the free world to share some of that profit with you? Do you know mobsters?"

"Assuming your supposition was even true," Jake said, "I doubt it would have been brought about by anything as dramatic as mobsters."

"Oh?"

"That's right," he said. "It would probably be more along the lines of a good lawyer threatening to challenge the very legality of first-time contracts under a legal theory known as 'unenforceable provisions'."

"Unenforceable provisions?"

He gave her a brief rundown on what that term meant. "Basically it means if you put something into a contract that was so outrageous � like agreeing to a lengthy term under conditions that almost guarantee you'll go into debt � it doesn't matter if the person who signed the contract was in his right mind and understood the provision. By their very nature they are unenforceable."

"Wow," she said. "And that worked?"

"I'm not saying anything worked," Jake said. "I'm just saying that if the scenario you're suggesting ever took place, that might be how it was done. You see, the record company would be willing to sacrifice Intemperance and all the future revenue we represented just to make an example of us to future bands. What they wouldn't be able to tolerate, however, is a threat that cuts to the core of their very industry and profit margin. If a court � most likely the California Supreme Court itself � were to rule that Intemperance's contract was null and void under unenforceable provisions, that would mean that every single first-time contract signed with any record company based in California would also become null and void. That would be something that could force a renegotiation now, wouldn't it?"

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. You could almost see the light bulb going on over her head.

"Before you start getting any wild ideas," Jake said, "allow me to derail them. This scenario might have been possible back in 1985 but it probably wouldn't fly now. Rose Bird and most of her cohorts have been voted off the California Supreme Court and they were all replaced with conservatives whose asses are so tight you probably couldn't stick a baby thermometer in there. I don't think a record company would take the threat as seriously today."

Celia's face fell a little. "Well, that sucks ass."

"Indeed it does," Jake agreed. "Let's have another drink, shall we?"

"That sounds like a grand idea."

They actually had three more drinks before it was time for Jake to put the steaks on the barbeque. He grilled them to a perfect medium-rare and brought them back to Elsa, who put them on plates and carried them to the dining room table. In addition to the steaks there were sliced portabella mushrooms saut�ed in garlic and red wine, homemade red beans and rice, and steamed asparagus spears with cheese sauce. To round it all out she opened a bottle of 1982 Cabernet Sauvignon from the Berringer vineyards in the Napa Valley. Jake and Celia both tore into the food with a vengeance, eating every last scrap of everything with hardly a word exchanged.

"Oh my lord, Elsa," Celia told her when she come in to clear the dishes. "That was absolutely fantastic. I've been eating nothing but cheap, catered food and greasy hotel kitchen food for the past five months. Thank you so much for a real meal."

"You're very welcome, Celia," Elsa said, displaying a small smile of satisfaction.

"I must agree, Elsa," Jake said. "The thing I was looking most forward to about this little vacation back from the road was getting some of your food in my stomach."

"Thank you too, Jake," she said. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. How does eggs benedict sound for breakfast in the morning?"

"Sounds good to me," he said. "How about you, Celia? Do you like eggs benedict?"

"I adore it," she said. "If I wasn't so stuffed right now I would be drooling."

"Eggs benedict it is," Elsa said. "Now please clear out of the dining area so I can clean it."

They obeyed, heading into the entertainment room. Jake poured each of them a snifter of cognac. Celia warmed hers in her hand and then took a sip. "Very good," she complimented. "You do seem to know your booze, Jake."

"I'm working on a PhD in booze," he replied. "This stuff is really nice with a good cigar."

"Now that's an idea," she said. "Do you have any?"

"You want to smoke a cigar?" he asked.

"I'm a woman of the world," she said. "Do you have any, or what?"

Jake grinned. "I think I just fell in love with you," he said. He walked behind the bar and opened the humidor that was installed there. He pulled out two of his finest illegally imported Cubans. "Shall we retire to the smoking area?"

"By all means."

They went out to the patio and sat down at the outside bar. Jake prepped the cigars with a cutting tool he kept out here just for that purpose and they lit up. Celia smoked it expertly, even commenting on the aftertaste.

"If the paparazzi could only get a shot of you now," Jake said. "Sitting out in Jake Kingsley's backyard, sipping cognac, and toking on an illegal stogy."

Celia only shrugged. "Who knows?" she said. "Maybe it would give my career a little boost. God knows I could use one after that last album."

Jake nodded. La Diferencia's fourth album � Love Is In The Air � had not done nearly as well as the first three. It had gone platinum, but only barely and only in the last month. Nor had it ever broached into the top ten on the album chart, stalling at number twelve for two weeks shortly after its release and then plunging rapidly downward. Similarly it had only produced one hit single � a song called How Much Can I Take? � instead of the three to four top ten singles produced by the first three albums (although, to be honest, How Much Can I Take? had parked itself at the number one spot for six consecutive weeks, denying Intemperance's song Cold Reality from the top spot).

"What happened on that album?" Jake asked, although he already knew. He had listened to the album several times and found it to be full of clich�d rehashes of the previous La Diferencia albums, some hokey enough that you had to wonder if they were jokes or not.

"Over-formulization, what else?" Celia said. "All of the tracks on Love sound like crappy imitations or our other hits. I knew it the whole time we were rehearsing it and recording it. The writers went back to the well a few too many times and the fans who loved our music so much have grown older and become more musically sophisticated. We didn't grow up with them. They just kept feeding us a bunch of sappy songs about teenage puppy love and dancing and being sad while your boyfriend is away and our fans got tired of it."

"Wow," Jake said respectfully. "That's a brutally honest self-examination."

"Above all else," she quoted, "to thy own self be true. I'm just being true to myself. We're a teen pop band and our fans have outgrown us. You guys, on the other hand, have done exactly what we failed to do. As your fan base grew older and wiser your music grew more sophisticated, more daring. Your lyrics became deeper and more relevant. Even Matt's lyrics, as much as I hate to admit it. That song of his, Can't Chain Me, is very moving in a disturbed kind of way. It was able to elicit an emotional response in me when I analyzed the lyrics. And your song, I Am Time, is simply brilliant, both in lyrics and instrumentation. There is nothing on Love that can even come close to that. That's why you're heading for triple platinum already and we're floundering at barely over platinum."

"You're right," Jake said. "Nothing the Aristocrat songwriters gave you for this one is worth a shit and it honestly sounds like they've flat run out of ideas. It doesn't have to be that way though."

"What do you mean?"

"You're a very good songwriter and melody composer if the few cuts they've allowed you to record are any indication."

"Nice try," she said with a pout, "but those were only bones they threw at me. You'll notice that none of them were ever released as singles. None were even played on the radio."

"Is that what you think makes a song good?" Jake asked. "Whether or not they play it on the radio?"

"Well... no," she said.

"I think Caribobo is one of the most moving and descriptive songs I've ever heard. It made me feel empathy for soldiers in a battle I'd never even heard of. And then there is Calling You on your second album. A very adroit analysis of the turmoil a person goes through after breaking up with someone who is no good for them."

Celia was looking at him in wonder. "I had no idea you paid so much attention to our music."

Jake shrugged, a little embarrassed, as if he'd been caught going through her purse. "La Diferencia always seems to be neck and neck with us on the charts so naturally I had to take a few listens to see what you were all about. My point is that you are a very talented songwriter. The music you make for those albums is consistently the best things on those albums. I'm not talking about how much airplay a song gets or how many singles it sells or whether or not it's nominated for a Grammy. Your songs are honest, written from the heart, which is the only way a song should be written."

"That's sweet, Jake," she said. "And it means a lot coming from someone like you."

"Glad I could boost your ego," he said, "but my other point was that you should push to get more of your own music on the next album."

"If there is a next album," she said. "There's a good chance they won't pick us up for the next option period after the sales of Love."

"Oh, they'll pick you up for the next," Jake said. "As long as they stand to make more money than they'll lose, they'll always pick you up. The album may sound like shit and not sell all that much but you're still a popular touring act, aren't you?"

"True," she said.

"So you should push them a little. Put together a collection of your original music and start throwing some weight around for them to include it."

"What makes you think I even have that much original music?" she asked.

"You do," Jake said. "I know you do."

"Oh really? And how might you know something like that?"

"The same way I know many other things about you. I listen to your music. As I've said before, you can tell a lot about someone by the music they compose."

"Example?" she said. "Tell me something you know about me from the music I compose."

"Okay," he said, rising to her challenge. "I know that you compose your music primarily on an acoustic guitar. I know that you tend to write your verses first and then compose the chorus later. I know that you are particularly fond of the F chord. But that's just the beginning. I also know that you tend to think liberally about social issues but conservatively on law and order issues. I know that you believe there really is such a thing as true love but that it is rare and that few people ever find it. I can tell you like romance but only if it's sincere in its offering. You would be particularly insulted by insincere compliments designed to get you in bed. How am I doing so far?"

Her eyes were wide, staring at him. "That's... amazing," she said. "You know all that just from listening to the six songs I have on three different albums?"

"Yep," he said. "And there's one other thing I know too."

"What's that?"

He took a long puff of his cigar and blew a few smoke rings with the bounty. He sipped from his cognac and then looked at her. "Someone who was able to compose a piece of music as moving and meaningful as Caribobo has dozens of other compositions that have never been allowed to see the light of day. Tell me I'm wrong."

She shook her head in bemused wonder. "All right," she said. "I do have a few."

"So why not push to get some of them on your next album?"

She sighed, puffing from her own cigar and then tapping the ash in the ashtray. "I've had to fight with everything I had just to put the six originals I already have on the albums. They started cracking down on this when we put Love together. They didn't allow me a single piece on that album."

"You gave in too easy," he said.

She seemed like she was about to get angry but then mellowed. She simply nodded. "Maybe," she said. "Sometimes it seems like it's just easier to go along with what they say."

"To do what they told you," he said.

"Yeah."

"And look what it's gotten you," he said. "You're an extremely talented musician with one of the most beautiful voices out there. You should be standing on top right now. Instead, you're stuck in a decline because you're letting other people write your music for you."

She didn't answer him. Instead she stared out at the city lights of Los Angeles and puffed on her cigar. Soon the subject changed to other things having to do with record executives who gleefully killed the geese who laid the golden eggs. When the ocean breeze started to kick up a bit, chilling them, Jake suggested they head back into the house.

They butted their cigars and chugged the last of their cognac. They went back inside and settled into the entertainment room. Jake made them each a fresh drink and then excused himself for a minute. When he returned he was carrying two acoustic guitars in his hands � his battered Fender and a newer Brogan he'd been given a few years ago when he had been playing under the old contract.

"What are those for?" Celia asked.

He dropped the Brogan in her lap and threw a couple of picks down with it. "Let's hear what you got," he said.

"What I got?"

"Show me some of your unrecorded work," he said. "I'd really love to hear it."

"Oh, Jake, I don't know," she said. "I usually keep most of that private."

"C'mon," he chided. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine."

She laughed at his reference. "How much unrecorded work could you possibly have?" she asked him. "You get to record all of your tunes."

"Not all of them," he said. "Only the ones that fit the Intemperance mold. I have dozens of tunes that don't, some dating all the way back to high school. Like you, I enjoy composing. It's how I relax. And when a song or a concept for a song gets into my head I have to strum it out. My supply is much greater than the demand."

"Yeah," she said. "I'm like that too."

"Then let's hear what you got," he repeated.

"You first," she challenged. "Sing me one of yours and I'll see what I can do."

He nodded, sitting down on the couch next to her. "Fair enough."

He put the Fender on his lap and pulled out a pick. He strummed a few times, getting the feel for the nylon strings and the wider neck after so many days of playing nothing but the Les Paul. Once his fingers became nimble and comfortable he dropped the pick and began to fingerpick a soft melody.

"This is called As You Will," he told her. "I wrote it for the last album but it was too mellow to be an Intemperance song. Still, I really like it. Hopefully I'll record it someday."

"I like the guitar work," she said.

He smiled and began to sing. Though he was somewhere between heavily buzzed and outright drunk he did not slur his words or stumble on the lyrics. His voice was as clear and crisp as it was on stage or in a recording studio. He sang through the first two verses, improvised a brief guitar solo, sang the bridge, and then rolled through the final verse. Since he'd never worked out an ending to the song he had to improvise that as well but he did a passable job of concluding the piece.

"I like that," Celia said dreamily. "I like it a lot. You're right though. It's really not like an Intemperance song and I don't think you'd want to try speeding up the tempo any."

"No, it would just make it sound like shit," Jake agreed.

They discussed the tune for a few minutes, talking about the chord changes, the key it was played in, and what sort of accompaniment by other instruments would enhance it the best if it were actually recorded. Both thought that minimal drums and minimal distorted electric guitar along with heavy piano and possibly a synthesizer track in the background would sound best.

"All right," Jake said when the conversation wound down. "Show me some shit."

She sighed, blushing a little, but settled the guitar on her lap and picked up a pick. She strummed the Brogan up and down a few times with open chords, getting the feel for the instrument and, undoubtedly, checking to see that it was in tune (it was � Jake did not allow an out-of-tune instrument in his house, even if it were just for display like his signed Les Paul). She then picked out a lightening fast piece with a decidedly Latin flavor to it before settling into a more sedate melody of moderate tempo.

"This is one I wrote for the last album," she said. "I thought it was the best of the bunch. It's called The Struggle."

"Sounds deep," Jake said, tapping the side of his own guitar to her rhythm.

"That's why they didn't like it," she said. "Too deep, too dark, too depressing for the target demographic."

"Yeah," Jake said. "I've heard that one before, although usually in reverse."

She strummed out the melody a few more times and then started to sing. Her throaty contralto voice sounded even prettier in person than it did on vinyl or on the radio. She sang of the basic differences between men and women and how those differences could tear a relationship apart if some accommodation was not made for them. As a verse-first composer her chorus sections all varied from each other, their purpose to support the verse just put down instead of the other way around like most of Jake's tunes.

Oh how we struggle, every day

We pick and pull each other every way

All the big things we try to ignore

And all the little things become so much more

That was the first chorus. The second was a little darker.

Why must we struggle? Why can't we work this out?

You're full of anger and I'm full of doubt

We can't make love and we can't go to sleep

All we can do is make sure the knife is in deep

It's such a struggle

Such a useless struggle

She did a guitar solo of her own, her nimble fingers flying over the fretboard and impressing Jake greatly. He took a moment to wonder what she would sound like with a fully distorted and amplified electric in her hands.

She ended the solo and picked up the main rhythm again, only this time a little more up-tempo, her pick hitting the strings harder and faster. She belted out another verse, this one dealing with the anger, the jealousy, the lack of communication, and, eventually, the hatred that marked the end of a relationship. That led into the final chorus.

Too much struggle, now we've fallen apart

It's finally over, out of room in my heart

All for nothing, all the time that we've spent

Our lives are shattered, we're twisted and bent

It ends in hatred, it ends with despair

Once there was love here, now I just don't care

Because of struggle... yeah

Useless struggle

Because of struggle... struggle...

Because of struggle

She sang the last two lines during a sharp reduction of tempo, until by the last word she was drawing out the syllables, focusing intently upon the last two. Her fingers then came to rest, her green eyes looking shyly at Jake.

"Well?" she asked.

"All I can say is wow," he said. "That was indeed a very deep song."

"Too deep?" she asked.

He shook his head strenuously. "I don't think there is any such thing as that. It did hit me a little close to home though. It reminds me of several previous relationships of mine."

"That's what it's supposed to do," she said. "People are supposed to relate to it. It's kind of like your song Point Of Futility."

"That song was written specifically about me," he said. "And specifically about the end of a certain relationship."

"Michelle Borrows?" she asked.

"The one and only," he said. "Don't ever tell her that though."

"I'll try to keep it to myself the next time Michelle and I have afternoon tea together."

They laughed and then discussed her song a little more, putting it through the same paces they had Jake's. Jake thought it would sound good with the acoustic guitar rhythm translated into a mildly distorted electric riff covered by heavy piano and enhanced by a background of intermittent lead guitar. Celia seemed to like this idea but thought a saxophone solo instead of a guitar solo would be better.

"Do another one," Celia told Jake when they finally ran out of things to say about The Struggle.

"Only if you match me," he said.

"Song for song," she promised. "But lets get another drink going first, huh?"

"Now you're talking my language," he said.

They played on for hours. Both dug into their archives of tunes they'd written, dredging them up one by one, singing them, and then analyzing the relative strengths and weaknesses of each. They got up frequently during their recitals to refresh their drinks. Before too long they were both stumbling back and forth from the couch to the bar (and quite frequently to the bathroom), their words becoming quite slurred when they talked (but not when they sang, although neither really noticed this). They eventually became giddy, laughing at everything, especially when they started to reach the bottoms of their song barrels and started digging up tunes that probably should have remained buried.

Jake played one he had written back in his early high school days, back before becoming interested in politics and human nature, when he'd been more into fast cars and the Oakland Raiders. That was actually the name of the song � Fast Cars And Football. It contained verses like: Gonna drive my Porsche to the Coliseum, gonna park it down in front then go in to beat 'em."

"Oh my God," Celia cried, in hysterics as she heard this. "That is so fucking terrible!"

"Hey," said Jake, who was laughing just as hard. "What do you want from me? I was fourteen years old. That was one of my first tunes."

"You're gonna be embarrassed that you sang that to me when you sober up."

"You're probably right," he agreed. "Now it's your turn. Sing me something that you will be embarrassed about."

She did. She sang a tune she'd composed when she was thirteen and obsessed with horses. A verse-first writer even then, the tune was full of hokey references to tall steeds with powerful shoulders and metal shoes on their feet, with thoughts of young thighs gripping furry backs on the beach.

"You call my shit terrible?" Jake said when she was done. "Your shit didn't even rhyme!"

"Well I wrote it in Spanish, you dope," she told him, her face red from laughter. "Of course it doesn't rhyme when you translate it into English."

"Sing it to me in Spanish," he told her. "I want it hear it in its original version."

"You don't speak Spanish," she reminded him.

"Oh yeah," he said, causing both of them to go into peels of fresh laughter.

They had run out of both rum and coke quite a few songs before and switched to beer. The empty Corona bottles littered the coffee table next to the couch. When Jake went back to the refrigerator to get them two more he found that they'd drank all of the beer as well.

"No more beer?" Celia asked. "What kind of a host are you? I've never been so insulted in my life."

"Sorry," Jake said, hanging his head low. "I'm ashamed. Maybe I can make a beer run." He looked up at the clock over the bar and thought it was wrong at first, that the batteries must have died during the afternoon. Only when he checked the kitchen clock did he conclude it really was 2:30 AM. They had been sitting in the entertainment room singing to each other for more than five hours.

"Wow," Celia said when he told her the beer run was cancelled on account of it being past last call. "I thought it was like ten."

"Hey, time flies when you're having fun, huh? I guess maybe I'd better get to bed. I have to get up in about five hours so I can visit Darren before all the wardrobe and interview crap starts in the afternoon."

"And I promised my A&R guy I'd be back in my hotel room by nine o'clock," Celia said.

They staggered their way upstairs and said goodnight at the top of the staircase.

"Thanks for inviting me over, Jake," Celia told him, giving him a chaste hug. "I've had a really good time. It's been awhile since that's happened."

"We'll need to do it again sometime," Jake said, returning the hug, feeling the press of her breasts against his chest, smelling the lingering remnants of her vanilla. "I need to ask you something," he said when the embrace ended.

She looked at him a little nervously. "What's that?"

"Don't take this the wrong way," he said. "But you smell really good. What is it you're wearing?"

She giggled. "Oh, you have no idea what I thought you were going to ask," she said. "It's vanilla lace body spray. I hate perfume but I like the smell of vanilla."

"It suits you," he said. "Good night, Celia."

"Good night, Jake."

They went to their respective bedrooms. Both of them passed out atop the covers without even removing their clothes.

Jake visited Darren in the hospital the next day. He had been weaned from the ventilator and was breathing on his own now but his muscles were still too weak to allow him to stand or lift anything on his own. Nurses had to feed him and he was kept constantly stoned with anti-anxiety medications like valium and ativan.

"How's the new guy working out?" Darren asked, his eyes only partially open, his words thick and heavy.

"He's really strange," Jake said. "He doesn't eat meat and he puts on latex gloves before he fucks groupies."

"No shit?" Darren said.

"No shit," Jake confirmed.

"How's he play?" Darren wanted to know.

"He's okay," Jake said diplomatically, not wanting to mention that Charlie was ten times the bass player that Darren could ever hope to be. "How are you doing? They treating you okay in here?"

"As long as they keep giving me the dope I don't seem to mind anything," he said.

The Grammy Awards were held that night. Both Jake and Celia were in attendance although their seats were far apart. None of the media types seemed to have any idea that they had spent the night together, or even that they were both suffering from tremendous hangovers.

Neither Intemperance nor La Diferencia won an award.

Jake went home in a limo and slept in his bed. At seven o'clock the next morning he was put on another plane and flown to Fort Lauderdale, Florida so he could make the next concert.

The tour went on.

August 11, 1988, 2:37 PM

2100 feet above Ventura County, California

The single engine Cessna 172 was in a thirty-degree bank to the right, its engine turning at forty percent power, its nose pointed slightly downward, its flaps partially deployed. Jake Kingsley sat in the left hand seat, his hands on the stick, his feet on the rudder pedals, his eyes flicking back and forth between the compass, the altimeter, and the view outside. Sitting next to him was Helen Brody, one of the two certified flight instructors for Brody Flight School.

Brannigan Airport was a rural general aviation field in southern Ventura County, some fifty miles north of Los Angeles and thirty miles east of Ventura. As the plane continued to bank the airfield's single runway came into view from the right side. It was a 16/34 runway, which meant it was aligned northwest to southeast. Horse and cow pastures stretched off to the east and an automobile junkyard was situated to the west. Jake slowly and smoothly straightened out his bank until the nose was pointed directly at that runway and his compass read 160.

"Beautiful," Helen said, her hands resting comfortably in her lap but prepared to take over the controls in an instant if it became necessary. "No need for adjustments on this one. Now bring us down."

"Bringing us down," Jake said, reducing the throttle and letting the nose slip downward. Their airspeed began to increase as gravity acted upon them. Jake slowly increased the flaps to maximum deployment, slowing them up but also increasing lift and causing the nose to come back up. He pushed down on the stick and throttled down some more until they were descending exactly on a glide path that would put them down on the first third of the runway. Their airspeed was sixty-nine knots, just two knots above the 172's stall speed with flaps deployed. Jake continued to make minor adjustments with the stick and rudders, adjusting their course to compensate for the twelve-knot south wind that was blowing. As they passed over the perimeter fence Jake throttled down to almost idle. The plane dropped a little faster. Just before it reached the ground he pulled up slightly on the stick. The nose came up and the plane went into a controlled stall. The fixed tricycle landing gear thumped softly down on the pavement with a slight screech. Jake retracted the flaps, neutralized the controls, and pulled the throttle all the way back.

"Very nice," Helen said, reaching out and giving him a friendly pat on the back. "Now let's do it again. We have time for two more."

"Yes, Sensei," Jake said with mock formality as he pushed the throttle forward once again. The engine screamed with horsepower and the plane rapidly accelerated. When it reached 85 knots he pulled back on the stick. They rose back into the air with three hundred feet of runway left to spare. Thus, his twelfth touch and go of the day was complete. Now he would take it back around for lucky thirteen.

The It's In The Book tour had come to an end June 15 with two sold out shows in Heritage. Since then the entire band had been on a much-deserved hiatus from most of their normal obligations. The only real task was for Matt and Jake to compose some new music for the next album. Since Book was now approaching five times platinum and five of the eleven songs on it were still receiving continuous airplay all over the North American and European continents, National was in no particular hurry to begin work on the next album.

"Just be in the rehearsal warehouse by mid-September," Crow had told them at the beginning of their vacation. "We've pushed your submission deadline all the way forward to November 15."

Since this was quite a departure from National's previous post-tour demands � they usually wanted the band in the rehearsal warehouse immediately and in the recording studio shortly after, regardless of when they actually planned to release the next album � the band was understandably suspicious at first. Jake, Matt, and Pauline had wondered if National's kindness was nothing but another plot to revert to the old contract, which failure to submit by the deadline could have done. Crow had squashed this suspicion before it could even be fully formed when he presented them with an addendum to their contract specifically stating what the new submission date was.

"Why are they doing it?" Pauline asked Jake. "I can't think of a reason."

Jake had simply shrugged. "Maybe they're starting to realize that we compose better when we're not pushed so hard. Who knows? I'm not going to question it too much. I'm just going to enjoy it."

And so he had been. So had they all.

Coop had taken up dirt bike riding, purchasing two high-end Yamahas, a truck, and a trailer to haul the bikes with. He spent most of his days out in the wilderness or the desert somewhere, riding up and down hills and sand dunes. He had dislocated his shoulder once and his left kneecap twice and bumped and bruised himself numerous times pursuing his new hobby but he seemed to be having fun.

Matt had acquired a house in Cabo San Lucas. He didn't actually own it since Mexican law forbid foreigners from actually purchasing land in their country but he had a ninety-nine year lease on two acres of beachfront property with a thirty-five hundred square foot house sitting upon it. This property and the building upon it, which would someday be worth over two million American dollars, he had picked up for just over two hundred thousand. He had been there ever since the close of escrow, partying and fishing his ass off.

Nerdly was spending all of his spare time at the National Records recording studio, learning all there was to know about mixing, overdubbing, and generally blending music so it would sound good when put on a master recording. He was now a fixture in there, helping with the production of nearly every album being produced in any genre � everything from Polka to hard-core ghetto rap. The studio technicians had at first considered him a nuisance they had to put up with to keep the bosses happy but they had long since learned to respect his opinions and suggestions and he was now so good at mixing that he was often sought after by one team or another when a snag or problem developed.

Charlie had gone back home to Birmingham where he'd used his newly acquired wealth to open a vegetarian restaurant in the downtown portion of the city. Though there were many who said that attempting such a venture in the industrial deep south was a losing proposition, Charlie's newfound fame as the bassist for Intemperance was, so far, keeping the seats full and the bottom line printed in black ink.

Darren was still in the hospital suffering from the aftereffects of his bout with botulism. He had regained the ability to walk but his muscles were still so weak he could only stand for ten to fifteen minutes at a time, could only lift ten pounds or so. He was undergoing physical therapy but it didn't seem like it was helping that much. The doctors were starting to fear that he would never fully recover his strength and live a normal life. Darren didn't really seem to care about this. Whenever one of the other band members visited him he was always in a happy mood. This was mostly due to the sedatives, tranquilizers, and anti-anxiety medications he was perpetually stoned on. It was clear that he would not be able to participate in the development or recording of the next Intemperance album.

Jake had enjoyed some minor participation in all of the others' endeavors. He had gone dirt bike riding with Coop several times (getting a second degree burn on his right leg when he'd crashed and had the tail-pipe push into his calf). He had flown down to Cabo twice to spend a few days with Matt and get his fill of deep-sea fishing for the year (as well as to reinforce his desire to own a seagoing vessel of some sort). He had flown to Birmingham to attend the grand opening celebration of Charlie's restaurant (and the food there was pretty damn good, he had to admit, despite not having any meat in it � Charlie had hired the best vegetarian chefs he could find). He made a point of visiting Darren at least once a week (although he usually came away feeling depressed at the state Darren was in). But he had chosen to use his vacation time to pursue a hobby he had always wanted to learn: how to fly.

Finding someone to teach him and getting certified as a student pilot had not been as easy as he'd thought it would be. He had assumed that when one had money falling out of one's asshole, as he did, that you could just pick up the phone and get things rolling. That had not been the case. Four of the most popular flight schools in the Los Angeles region had turned him down when he'd applied just on the basis that he was Jake Kingsley.

"What's gonna happen," one school administrator asked him, "when you go off and get yourself all doped up and mid-air into a 747 and kill four hundred people? That will be on our conscience and, more importantly, the liability lawyers will come looking for us because we taught you."

"I'm afraid we only accept people who are responsible," said another administrator. "Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Kingsley."

The other two schools had not even bothered to explain themselves. They'd just said no. Finally he found Brody Flight School at Brannigan Airport. It was a small school, owned by John Brody, a crusty, no nonsense pilot who had flown an A-1 Sandy for four years in Viet Nam and who had more than fourteen thousand hours at the stick in more than sixteen different aircraft. His twenty-four year old daughter, Helen, was the only other instructor he employed. He owned three aging but lovingly maintained Cessna 172s and rented a hanger at the airport from which to teach from. He had expressed the same concerns as the other schools but, unlike them, he had taken the time to listen to Jake's rebuttal to his concern.

"Yes," Jake had told him, "I drink a lot of booze. I smoke a lot of pot. I've been known to snort some coke on occasion. I'm a liberal, left wing, semi-communistic, womanizing, longhaired musician who likes to have a good time. But I'm also a very serious and committed person. I have never used any intoxicating substance before stepping onto the stage to play my music and I will never use any intoxicating substance before I get behind the controls of an aircraft. I take matters that involve my own life very seriously, Mr. Brody."

Brody had looked at him, his piercing blue eyes seeming to stare directly into Jake's soul. Finally, he nodded. "Okay," he said. "You seem sincere enough so I'll take you. But the first time you do anything that leads me to believe you will be an unsafe pilot, your ass is out of here. Is that understood?"

It was understood. The next step had been getting an FAA physical to certify that he was medically fit enough to fly an airplane. Again, the first three doctors he went to refused to certify him, not because of any physical malady � he was in top physical shape thanks to all the aerobic exercise that was involved in being a musician and his eyesight was tested at 20-15 � but because of his reputation in the media. All three of the doctors focused on a portion of the medical questionnaire that asked the applicant if they had certain medical or psychiatric conditions. One of the questions was "Have you been addicted to either drugs or alcohol in the last two years?"

Jake had answered 'no', as any reasonable person would do even though he was in the habit of drinking just about every day and smoking pot at least twice a week. Since he did not consider this to be addicted, per se, and since he did not intend to ever imbibe before flying he felt he was being truthful. The doctors, however, did not see things the same way.

"I'm rejecting you for lying on the medical form," the first had said.

"Lying?" Jake had asked, fighting to keep his temper in check.

"You said you're not addicted to drugs or alcohol."

"I'm not," he'd said.

The doctor had chuckled, shaking his head. "Didn't you snort cocaine out of a girl's buttocks on one occasion?"

"No," Jake said.

"That's not what the papers say," the doctor replied. "And weren't you caught in a hotel room in New York with a couple of pounds of cocaine in your possession?"

"That case was dismissed," Jake said. "I have never been convicted of any offense in any court of law. I've never even had a speeding ticket."

"Nevertheless, there have been numerous reports of your drunken and drug addicted antics. I cannot, in good faith, certify you as fit to fly."

His exams with the next two doctors had gone pretty much the same. Finally he had brought Pauline along with him for the fourth exam. As soon as the doctor started questioning Jake's honesty on the drug or alcohol section Pauline had stepped in.

"Do you have any proof that Jake is addicted to drugs or alcohol, Doctor?" she'd asked.

"It's been in all the papers," the doctor said.

"There are reports of UFOs and Bigfoot in the papers as well," Pauline said. "Just because it's written down doesn't mean it's true."

"I have a reasonable suspicion that Jake is not fit to fly," the doctor said. "It is therefore my duty to..."

"Your duty," Pauline interrupted, using her courtroom voice, "is to examine Jake fairly and competently and come to a simple conclusion based on your training and the factual findings you uncover. He is in good physical condition, his eyesight and blood pressure are within parameters, and you have nothing other than third and fourth hand hearsay to conclude that intoxicating substances are a problem with him. If you reject him because of what you've read in newspapers or seen on the news I will haul your butt before the medical review board and tear you into little pieces before them. When I'm done with you you'll be lucky to get a job squeezing the testicles of death row inmates at San Quentin."

The doctor crumbled, and quickly. "What the hell do I care if he's out flying a plane drunk?" he mumbled as he signed Jake's forms and gave him his certification.

And so, with everything nice and legal, the lessons began. Jake had paid a lot of money for them to be crammed into as many hours of the week as he could be there. John Brody had expressed trepidation at this at first.

"Usually we only have our students come in twice a week or so," he said. "That lets you spread things out and absorb the information gradually."

"I don't have that kind of time, Mr. Brody," Jake told him. "I want to be soloing before we start work on our next album or I won't have any time at all to finish what I started. I like to finish what I start, you know what I mean?"

Brody reluctantly agreed, probably figuring his rich rock star student would quickly lose interest or flunk out. To his surprise, Jake had proved to be an adept student in all aspects of the training. He had passed the ground school portion of the lessons with flying colors and had demonstrated an almost eerie ability to grasp the fundamentals of flying during the practical flight lessons themselves.

Day after day he would go through the extensive and repetitious pre-flight list for one of the Cessnas and they would take to the air above Southern California. Brody had started him with the basics, teaching him how to turn, how to navigate, how to ascend and descend, how to climb while turning, how to descend while turning. From there they'd worked on stalls and other emergency procedures, teaching him how to recover the aircraft when something went wrong. And then came take-offs and landings, at first just at their home field but gradually working their way up to navigating to other fields and utilizing the air traffic procedures in place there.

The elder Brody had been his primary instructor at first but as he'd watched Jake apply himself and had become a little more confident in his student's motivation and abilities he had started letting Helen take him up instead, gradually working it to the point where Helen was the primary instructor. As Jake practiced his touch and go procedures now, on this hot August day, he had logged just over sixty hours at the stick, more than enough under the law to solo for the first time, although neither Helen nor her father, who had final say in when he soloed, had yet authorized him to do this.

"Okay," Helen said now as he banked around into the landing pattern of Brannigan Airport and began to deploy his flaps to slow down. "Another good approach. I think you're starting to get the hang of this, Jake."

"It's just like learning a new tune," Jake said, concentrating on his controls and his instruments. "Keep doing it over and over again and it becomes second nature."

"Maybe," Helen said with a smile as he pointed the nose down and began to descend again. "But if you screw up one of your tunes you don't die, do you?"

Jake nodded respectfully. "Point taken," he said.

His relationship with Helen Brody made Jake a little uncomfortable at times. It wasn't because she was in a position of authority over him. It was because she was attracted to him. This had not been the case initially. The first time they'd met she had looked at him like he was a piece of bug excretement on her windshield. She had only taken over the role of flight instructor for him at her father's steadfast insistence. During those first few flights the cockpit had been as cold as ice and the conversation had been businesslike and nothing else. He had sensed the feelings of fear and disgust at him radiating off of her as surely as if she'd sprayed them on like perfume.

Gradually, however, her mood had lightened as they got to know each other better. The chill started to thaw when Jake had figured out the basis for her feelings toward him. She had snapped at him one day when he'd gone just a few feet over the altitude she'd told him to level off at � a common mistake among beginning pilots. Her reaction to it had been much more than he deserved.

"Hey, chill out a little," he'd said as he brought the plane back down to where it belonged. "I'm a student, remember?"

"And what if I don't chill out?" she'd asked. "Are you going to hit me?"

He looked over at her, seeing that her eyes were dilated with nervous adrenaline, that her face was flushed with the fight or flight response of fear. "Hit you?" he asked. "Is that why you're so skittish around me? You're afraid I'm going to hit you?"

"Keep your eyes forward," she'd barked. "You look at your instruments and your view, not at me."

He took a glance at both and then turned back to her. She was still withering under his gaze. "I'm not the person you read about in the papers," he told her. "I know you don't believe me, but I've never hit a woman in my life, nor have I ever raped one, nor have I ever thrown one off a boat."

She didn't respond to this. She simply told him once again to keep his eyes forward.

But after that her attitude seemed to change. Slowly, day-by-day, conversation began to occur between them that was separate from the flight instruction she was giving. It was just the mundane kind of conversation at first. They talked of the weather, of the state of the economy, of the upcoming elections and whether Dukakis stood an ice cube's chance in hell of beating George Bush. From there, the talk gradually grew more intimate. They spent many hours together flying from airfield to airfield, around in circles, or practicing various aspects of flight, and it wasn't long before Helen got to know the real Jake Kingsley, before she discovered his dry and witty sense of humor, his intelligence on political and sociological topics, and, most significant, his almost forlorn sense of emotional loneliness despite the wealth and fame he had at his fingertips.

"I was wrong about you, Jake," she told him one day after he'd successfully pulled the aircraft out of ten powered and twelve unpowered stalls. "I thought you were an elitist, sexist, abusive rich prick and I now know that you are not like that at all. I apologize."

"Apology accepted," he'd said. "And I thank you for giving one. Now what are we going to do now, Sensei? Can I try a few of those barrel rolls again?"

She'd smiled. "Go for it," she told him. "And after that I'll teach you how to loop."

The attraction she felt for him started to develop soon after. At times he would catch her looking at him in ways that teachers really weren't supposed to look at their students. He made a conscious effort to keep himself from encouraging this attraction. After his experience with Rachel the previous year he did not feel he was ready for another relationship with a woman, especially not a woman who had a say in whether or not he received his pilot's license. At the same time, however, he was finding himself increasingly attracted to her despite his best efforts to remain aloof.

Helen was not a gorgeous woman. She would never be asked to model clothing or underwear, would never get past the first stage of an audition for an acting job. She was also not an ugly woman. Cute was perhaps the best word to describe her. She was about five-six and maybe fifteen pounds heavier than what was considered ideal for that height. She didn't look fat by any means, or even chubby, she was just voluptuous, with larger than average breasts and a cute, chubby-cheeked face topped with dark brunette hair that was almost black. Her eyes were hazel and very expressive, very easy to read. She was not the kind of girl that turned heads when she walked down the street, but rather one that grew on you the more you looked at her.

Aside from being physically attracted to Helen, Jake found he enjoyed her personality as well. She was not a girly-girl by any means. She was very tomboyish, in mannerisms, speech, and actions. She enjoyed playing golf and baseball. She liked drinking beer and shooting pool. And, of course, she loved piloting aircraft and teaching others to do the same.

Her tomboyish persona was really not that surprising once she told Jake her basic biography. She had been born an Air Force brat in 1964 and raised primarily by her mother for the first six years of her life while her father deployed to a series of bases around the world and, eventually, to Vietnam from 1966 to 1970. In 1971, less than a year after John Brody's return from that unpopular war, Cynthia Brody, his wife, Helen's mother, had been killed in a car accident while driving home from the grocery store. From that point on Helen, an only child, had been raised by her gruff and masculine father. She had become the son he'd never have through default, learning to play sports and drink beer and, most significant, to fly airplanes long before she learned to drive a car. When John had retired from the Air Force six years before and started up his flight school, Helen was right there by his side, an equal partner in every way.

This tomboyishness was something that intrigued Jake. The idea that she was better than him at golf (which she was � although they had never played each other, her handicap was a solid 5 while Jake's was currently a 12), that she could beat him in poker, that she could out-cuss a longshoreman, that she knew how to change the oil in her car, when contrasted with her obvious femininity made him want to get to know her better. Much better. So far he'd resisted the urge to ask her out even though he knew she would say yes if he did. He liked her, but he didn't want to date her or get involved with her on that level. He didn't want to treat another girl the way he'd treated Rachel. He didn't want to hire a new girlfriend.

Unfortunately Helen, tired of waiting for him to ask her out, decided to take matters into her own hands. After Jake finished his last two touch and goes she directed him to climb back up to 3100 feet and navigate them to a small airport just outside Santa Barbara. Jake turned the plane to a northwest heading and climbed up to his assigned altitude. Once there he quickly figured out which navigation beacons he would be using and programmed his equipment.

"What's our flight time?" Helen asked him.

"Thirty-five minutes," he responded.

"Very good. And what's the ATC frequency we'll use for our approach?"

He rattled off a frequency number to her.

"Bitchin," she said. "Do you want to actually land there and stretch our legs a little? We have privileges at that field." This meant they had an arrangement with the flight school based out of that airport and would not have to pay a landing fee for touching down.

"Sure," he said. "I'd like to try it at a different field. We've never been into that one."

"Okay then," she said. "What's the elevation and runway configuration for our destination?"

"Elevation 148," he said. "Runway is a 27/9."

"And what is our likely approach going to be?"

"Winds are probably onshore this time of day," he said. "So most likely we'll use 27."

She smiled, looking at him warmly. "Not bad for a dumb rock star," she told him.

"I still have a few brain cells left," he replied.

They flew on in silence for a few minutes, the plane bumping a little as it passed over the mountains below.

"So listen," Helen said. "Maybe after we land we could grab a taxi and head into town for a little bit. There's a nice restaurant I know down on the waterfront. I'll buy you dinner."

Jake's hands clenched the tiniest bit on the controls. "Uh... that's very nice of you to offer," he said, "but my housekeeper is already making dinner for me. She gets upset with me if I don't come home for dinner without telling her in advance."

"Oh..." Helen said. "That's very... accommodating of you." She considered for a moment. "Maybe I could come over to your place and have dinner there? Would there be enough?"

Jake let out a little sigh. She was persistent like a man as well, even when she shouldn't be. "Helen, listen," he said. "I like you � don't get me wrong � but I just don't think it would be a good idea for us to get together in that sort of way."

"I don't understand," she said softly, her face expressionless. "I thought you and I were... that we... uh... you know, had some sort of a connection. Was I imagining that?"

"No," he said. "You weren't. I am attracted to you and I enjoy being around you."

She held her hands up in a gesture of confusion. "Then what's the problem, Jake? You've told me several times you don't have a girlfriend � not a permanent one anyway."

"The problem is me," Jake said.

She looked at him perplexed, and a little angry. "The old it's-not-you-it's-me speech already?" she asked. "I think you're getting them mixed up, Jake. You're supposed to use that one for breaking up, not for turning down a date."

He didn't laugh. "I'm not using a standard line on you, Helen. I'm being honest with myself and with you. You don't want to get involved with me. Every woman who has ever done that has ended up hurt � well, except for Mindy Snow, that time it was me who ended up hurt. My point is that I don't seem to do real well in intimate relationships."

"Don't you think I should be the one to evaluate my chances on that?" Helen asked.

"No," he said. "You don't know me like I know me."

"I know you well enough, Jake," she said. "I know you well enough to know that I'm incredibly attracted to you, that I love your personality, and that I want to spend more time with you."

Jake was shaking his head. "I can't, Helen," he said. "I'm sorry. I think our relationship needs to stay where it's at."

She nodded and said nothing else about it. In fact, she said nothing else that wasn't related to instruction the entire flight. They did not land in Santa Barbara. They simply navigated to the beacon and then turned around and flew back to Brannigan. The day's lesson was over.

As they pushed the Cessna back into it's hanger Jake turned to her. "Are you still going with me to Omaha this weekend?" he asked her. "Maybe your dad might go if you're uncomfortable doing it." For the past month Jake had been working on purchasing a plane of his own so he wouldn't have to rent one when he started flying solo. He'd finally located exactly what he was looking for in Omaha. An insurance executive was trying to unload a 1986 Cessna 172 with less than a thousand hours on it. It was a more modernized version of the plane Jake was training in. He had just closed the deal two days before and Helen had volunteered to fly down to Omaha with him and sit with in the cockpit as he flew it home. That was before he'd rejected her advance, however.

"I'll be there," she said quietly. "I made a promise to you and I intend to keep it."

"Thank you," he said.

She did not tell him he was welcome. They finished stowing the aircraft for the night and went their separate ways.

The Pacific View Country Club was one of the most exclusive and expensive private golf courses in the greater Los Angeles region. Located in the hills above Malibu it was a links style course with � as the name suggested � spectacular views of the ocean from eleven of its eighteen holes. The waiting list for membership at the club was reputed to be more than five years in length and each new member had to be approved by an executive committee who were notoriously (and perhaps illegally) stringent about the sorts of people they admitted into their sacred ranks.

At just past 7:00 AM the day following Jake's rejection of Helen, he pulled up to the gate that guarded entrance to the grounds and showed his identification to the guard manning the booth.

"Mr. Kingsley," the guard said politely after giving his license a thorough look. "You are indeed on my list. Go right in."

"Thank you," Jake said, taking his license back and dropping his Corvette back into gear.

Jake was not a member of the club and it was doubtful that they would accept him if he were to apply. He had never even been here before but today he was an invited guest of Gregory Oldfellow, the actor whose current film was being considered for an Oscar nomination and, more significant, was Celia Valdez's fianc�e.

Though the press had never caught wind of the fact that Jake and Celia had spent the night together before the Grammy Awards in March, Celia had told Gregory about it the next time they'd spoken. At first he hadn't been too keen on the fact that his fianc� had spent the night with one of the most notorious womanizers on the Hollywood scene but her assurances to him that nothing had happened, that they were just friends who had spent the night drinking and playing guitar for each other, had reassured him.

Since returning home from the It's In The Book tour Jake had had lunch with Celia twice, once at his house and once at Greg's. Both times Greg had been present. To Jake's surprise he found that he actually liked the handsome actor. In his experience most screen actors were arrogant, narcissistic asses who constantly kept whatever conversation was occurring steered toward the subject of themselves and who felt the need to top anything that anyone else said. Greg did, in fact, have a trace of these shortcomings in his personality but for the most part he seemed a decent, down to Earth kind of guy who genuinely had strong feelings for Celia and enjoyed being with her. He was intelligent and well spoken and proclaimed to love Intemperance's music. He had even thanked Jake for keeping Celia out of a sleazy hotel room on her big night and keeping her company in his absence.

The three of them had not gotten together in over a month now, nor had they really kept in touch. Greg was busy basking in the runaway success of his new movie and Celia was locked into the brutal grind of putting together the next La Diferencia album. It had been Greg who had called him up three days ago to ask Jake if he was interested in a little golf at the country club.

"I haven't played in months," Jake said. "I've been kind of busy with flight school."

"That's okay," Greg said. "You should see how Celia plays. She only started six months ago and a bogey is like a birdie to her. You couldn't possibly be more embarrassed than she will be."

"Okay," Jake replied. "What day?"

"You pick it," Greg said. "I'm free any day these days and Celia can break loose when she needs to. It's part of that rebellion thing you planted in her head."

"How about Friday?" Jake suggested. "I'm not flying that day and I'm on vacation from composing."

"Friday it is," Greg said. "How does a 7:45 tee-off sound?"

"Works for me."

"Come a little early if you want to hit some balls first. We'll be there around seven or so. It's best if Celia does some time on the range before she goes out."

"I know the feeling," Jake replied.

And so here he was now. He pulled into a parking spot just outside the clubhouse and before he could even get out of his car a young employee dressed in shorts and a Pacific View polo shirt was there to retrieve his clubs for him.

"How are you doing, sir?" the young man asked, obviously recognizing Jake but making no allusion to it.

"I'm fine, thank you," Jake said. He held out his hand. "Jake Kingsley."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Kingsley," the kid said, shaking with him. "Are you a guest today?"

"I am," Jake said. "Greg Oldfellow invited me."

"Oh yes," the kid said, as if he hadn't already known this. "Mr. Oldfellow and Ms. Valdez just arrived a few minutes ago. Allow me to take your clubs and put them on a cart for you."

"By all means," Jake said, taking a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and attempting to hand it over.

The kid didn't take it. "Thank you for the offer, Mr. Kingsley," he said, "but we're not allowed to accept gratuities."

"No shit?" Jake asked.

"That is correct," the kid said.

"Well that sucks ass, doesn't it?" Jake asked.

The kid hid a smirk as he took Jake's bag from the passenger seat of the car and hefted them onto his shoulder. He took a look at the layer of dust that had accumulated since the last time Jake had played. "I'll just clean these up a bit for you before you head out, sir," he said.

Thanks," Jake said. The kid headed off toward the clubhouse.

Jake was dressed in accordance to the strict dress code of the country club. He wore a pair of blue pleated shorts and a collared white shirt. Atop his head was a visor he'd bought years ago at Hannigan Oaks golf course in Heritage � his dad's favorite course and the course Jake was most familiar with. He took a few moments to change from his tennis shoes into his golf shoes and then headed off toward the clubhouse.

He found his clubs mounted on the back of an electric golf cart parked just outside the clubhouse. He went inside to sign in and, though he received a few glares and confused stares from the other members inside, the middle-aged staff member behind the counter treated him with nothing but respect.

"Mr. Oldfellow and Ms. Valdez are out on the driving range if you'd care to join them," he said.

"Sure, thanks," Jake said. "Do I need a range token or anything like that?"

The staff member actually winced as he heard this. "We do not have range tokens here, Mr. Kingsley," he said. "Our range balls are entirely complimentary."

"Oh... cool," Jake said.

"In fact," he went on, "I was told by Mr. Oldfellow that if you required any golf equipment before heading out that I was to provide it to you and put it on his account. Do you need golf balls, Mr. Kingsley?"

"No thanks," Jake said with a smile. "I've got all the balls I need."

He blinked a little but held his composure. "Very well. Do you know how to get to the range?"

"I'm sure I can figure it out," Jake said. "Thank you."

The driving range was a lovingly maintained piece of landscape set on one of the hills with an ocean view. Instead of buckets of balls handed out by an attendant each range station had a number of balls stacked into an aesthetically pleasing pyramid shape. Celia and Greg were down near the far end of the range. Jake parked his cart on the cement path behind them. Both dropped the clubs they were holding and came over to greet him. Jake had to fight to keep his eyes on Celia's face as she approached. She was dressed in a burgundy polo shirt that outlined the swell of her breasts and a pair of white shorts that contrasted alluringly with her long, sun browned legs.

"Hi, Jake," she greeted, smiling at him, pullin him into a friendly hug and giving him an even friendlier kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad you could join us."

"Me too," Jake said, wondering if Greg would have a problem with her manner of greeting him. It seemed he did not. He stepped forward and shook Jake's hand warmly, welcoming him to the country club.

"Thanks for inviting me," Jake said. "But are you sure that people are okay with me being here? I've gotten some pretty funny looks since I pulled in."

"From the members or the staff?" Greg asked.

"The members," Jake said. "Or at least I assume they're members."

Greg nodded. "I can't do much about the members," he said apologetically. "There are mostly good people here but a lot of stuck-up snobs too. If any of the staff shows you the least bit of disrespect, however, let me know and I'll deal with it. I pay a lot of money to be a member here and I expect my guests to be treated with the utmost courtesy."

"Sure," Jake said, wondering just how he would deal with such a thing. Did he have the power to get someone fired? "I usually get along with staff people at places like this though. They tend to be my kind of people."

Greg laughed as if he'd made a joke and clapped him on the back.

They shared a few moments of small talk while Jake pulled a selection of clubs from his bag and then stretched out his arms, legs, and back. The three of them then walked over to the driving range stations to hit some balls.

Jake started with his driver, topping his first two shots and slicing the next three before finally crunching one right down the middle. He kept hitting drives until he was consistently blasting them 230 to 240 yards in the general direction of where he was aiming them. He then dialed in his fairway woods, his long irons, and his short irons until the entire pyramid of balls was gone.

"Ready to do it?" Greg asked.

"I'm as loose as one of Matt's girlfriends," Jake said, making Celia giggle.

They headed over to the first hole, a picturesque but tough looking 430 yard par four with a narrow fairway that had a creek running across it at about 210 yards from the tee blocks.

"This one is a bitch," Greg said as he pulled a tee from his pocket. "It's the number three handicap. You gotta be sure to hit a solid drive or you'll end up in the creek."

"Or you could lay up like I do," Celia suggested.

Jake and Greg both scoffed at this.

"Laying up is for pussies," Jake said.

"Here here," Greg agreed.

Celia simply rolled her eyes at them. "I smell testosterone starting to simmer here."

"Funny you should mention that, C," Greg said. "I was just going to ask Jake if he'd care to make the game a little more interesting."

He was talking about a bet, of course. "That depends on the terms you offer," Jake said.

"Well let's see," Greg said, thinking. "You told me you're a twelve handicap, right?"

"As of the last time I posted," Jake said. "And you're a scratch golfer, as I recall you mentioning on a few occasions."

"Lately I've been playing a two handicap," Greg said.

"He's been sandbagging," Celia said.

"Shhh," Greg said. "Don't give away my strategy."

Jake laughed politely, as one did on a golf course when someone told a joke that wasn't all that funny.

"So anyway," Greg said, "I propose a one thousand dollar Nassau, match play of course, automatic press per nine when three holes down and automatic press for the eighteen when five holes down. I'll give you a stroke on the number one through ten handicap holes."

"I haven't played in months," Jake said. "I need at least fourteen strokes for that kind of money."

"I can't go fourteen," Greg said. "How about twelve? That'll assume one up on your handicap and one down on mine."

"Deal," Jake said, adding up the potential losses in his head. They would be playing hole for hole instead of stroke play. A thousand dollars would be paid to whoever won the most holes on the front nine, the back nine, and the entire eighteen as a whole. The automatic presses would come into play if someone fell behind by three holes on the front or back or five holes on the entire eighteen. That meant if Jake played poorly and Greg did not, Jake could lose as much as six thousand dollars.

Jake decided not to worry about the money and simply enjoy the day. It was easy to do. He quickly found that he enjoyed playing at a country club as opposed to a public course. The grounds were beautifully groomed and maintained. Each fairway consisted of rich, uniformly cut grass that allowed a golf ball to sit nicely upon it no matter where it landed. The rough areas were marked by a distinct border and provided a significant challenge if one landed there. The greens were immaculately sculptured landscapes nearly as smooth as a billiard table and nearly as fast as concrete when one putted upon them. Iced water dispensers were located at the tee blocks of every hole and bathrooms with actual indoor plumbing were located every third hole. The course was also not as crowded as a public course since only members and their guests were allowed to play there. There was no waiting between holes, no waiting on the fairways or at the par threes for other golfers to clear the area. What he enjoyed most of all, however, was the privacy. Though he did get the occasional snooty glare when crossing paths with some of the members no one came up to ask for his autograph or to tell him he was a sinner or to tell him about this great band they were in and offer to give him a demo tape.

Jake also realized by the third hole that if he didn't get his shit together, and soon, he was going to end up owing Celia's fianc� a cool six grand. He double-bogeyed the first hole after muffing his drive while Greg neatly and effortlessly sank a two-foot putt for par. He bogeyed the second hole while Greg once again put his in for a par. And on the third hole, though he managed to tie Greg for a push, that was only because he got a stroke there. He had another bogey and Greg tapped in neatly for his third consecutive par.

"You warming up a little bit?" Greg asked him as they mounted the tee block for number four. "You seem like you're getting a handle on your ball."

"I think I am," Jake said, looking out over the 168-yard par three. The tee blocks sat before a large canyon and the green was a small island on the other side.

"This one's easy," Greg said, "as long as you don't choke."

"I always choke here," said Celia, who had so far shot nothing better than a bogey and had already lost two balls in the scrubland that surrounded each hole. "I'm just gonna go up to the edge and throw my ball in now and save myself the trouble of hitting it in there."

"It's all in your state of mind, darling," Greg told her. "Don't think about the canyon. Just think about putting it on the green."

"Be the ball," she said, making Jake chuckle � he understood the reference she was making � and Greg look at her in confusion.

"Anyway," Greg said. "I believe I still have the honors?"

"I believe you're right," Jake said.

Greg mounted the tee block and put his ball in the ground.

"So how goes the recording process?" Jake asked, as Greg picked up grass to check the wind and checked his yardage one last time.

"It's the usual grind," she said, speaking softly. "We're spending about sixty hours a week trying to get the new album put together. I may be a crappy golfer but it's nice to get away from that underground dungeon for awhile."

"Did they let you record any of your songs for this one?"

She smiled. "I used every ounce of rebellion I had in me and more than a few of those temper tantrums we Latin types are so famous for and, as a result, they agreed to let me record three of my original songs."

"That's better than the last album, isn't it?"

She withheld her answer for the moment as Greg was finally addressing his ball. They watched as he smoothly swung and launched it into the air in a clean ballistic arc heading directly for the green. It landed less then two feet from the pin but there was enough backspin on it to bring it back almost five feet."

"Nice," said Jake.

"It's on the dance floor," Greg agreed, his tone implying that he should have done better.

"Anyway," Celia said as Jake pulled his golf ball and a tee from his pocket, "it wasn't quite the victory I was hoping for. The producer didn't like the heavy acoustic guitar rhythm of the song and converted all the melodies into synthesizer and piano dominated pieces. They're not bad, but they're not what I envisioned either."

"I told her she should just tell them to take their album and cram it up their ass," Greg said. "It's disgraceful how those executives manipulate her music and package it into something they think will sell instead of what she wants."

"I'm the first to agree with you there," Jake said, mounting the tee and putting his ball in the ground. "Although it's not that easy just to walk away. Not the way they write those first time contracts."

"They pretty much own my soul," Celia said.

"You guys need a guild like we screen actors have," Greg said. "We're the ones with the power in our industry, not the producers and the movie studios. I got paid eight million dollars for my last film. I'm negotiating to get eleven million for my next one. And I'm just a character actor who's not even in the top ten. Meanwhile Celia, who is the primary talent behind the most popular contemporary band in the United States, a woman who has been nominated for more than six Grammy awards, is losing money with each new album she puts out. A recording artist's guild would put an end to all that exploitation."

"That's the same thing Mindy Snow used to say to me," Jake said. "I just don't see it happening in my lifetime."

"That's the truth," Celia said. "The only way to get ahead in this business is to stay popular enough through your first contract so that you can negotiate from strength for your second contract." She cast a knowing eye on Jake. "Kind of like someone I know, huh, Jake?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jake said, leaning over his ball so she couldn't retort. She kept her silence and Jake focused on his shot. He kept his eye on the ball and his swing smooth. The six iron hit with a resounding smack. It felt good but when Jake looked up he saw that he'd pulled it a bit. It was drifting to the right. Instead of landing on the green it landed in a sand bunker just to the right of the green.

"Good contact," Greg said analytically. "Just a little bit of a pull."

"Yeah," Jake said sourly.

"Remember," Greg reminded Jake as Celia mounted the tee (she refused to play from the ladies tees), "if you lose this hole you're three down and the press goes into play."

"I remember," Jake said, carefully keeping the irritation from his voice. Greg had felt the need to remind him of this on the last hole as well.

Celia, to her surprise and to Greg's, actually blasted her ball quite nicely over the canyon. Unfortunately it also went over the green. In a classic case of overcompensation she had decided to hit a four iron instead of a five or a six. Her ball was safe but it was also more than twenty yards off the green.

They got in their carts and drove across the wooden bridge to the other side. While Celia went after her ball Greg and Jake stood near the edge of the trap Jake's ball was located in.

"So how goes the wedding plans?" Jake asked. "Have you set a date yet?"

"We're thinking about late January," Greg said. "That way it will fall in her break between recording and going out on tour so we'll have some time to spend together before a long seperation."

"January huh?" Jake asked. "Are you gonna go somewhere warm for it?"

"Celia was thinking about Hawaii," he said. "We haven't started planning anything just yet though because she's still balking at the prenuptial agreement."

Jake nodded, remembering how bitterly she'd mentioned that particular sticking point in the past. "Women really don't like those things much, do they?"

"Yeah," said Greg with a sigh. "I've heard all the arguments against it. It's not romantic, it's saying that we're planning to fail, it means you don't trust me, so on and so forth." He shook his head. "I don't like to think of myself as a tight-ass or anything but I do like to deal in reality. I'm worth twenty million dollars and Celia has no net yearly income at all. We live in a community property state for God's sake. I can't risk half of my earnings like that. You understand, don't you, Jake?"

Jake nodded truthfully. "I surely do," he said. "If you were a cop or a fireman or some other kind of middle-class wage earner I'd tell you to get over yourself. But when you're talking about more than a million dollars... well... you're right. You have to protect yourself."

"Exactly," Greg said, clapping him on the back. "Hey, you like cigars? I got a couple of Cubans in my cart."

"You talked me into it," Jake said.

There was a crack as Celia chipped her ball. It bounced three times on the green and then rolled off the front edge, stopping just beyond the fringe. A profane and very unfeminine articulation came drifting over the ground to their ears.

"You might as well pop out of that trap now," Greg told Jake. "She's liable to hit that thing back and forth across the green two or three more times before she starts putting."

"Right," Jake said. He climbed into the trap and addressed the ball, careful to keep his club head from touching the sand until he actually made his shot. As he'd been taught, he hit two inches behind the ball, scooping it out of the trap on a cushion of sand. It bounced once on the grass and then dribbled slowly onto the green, stopping about eight feet from the pin.

"Nice out," Greg said, although it really hadn't been all that spectacular.

By the time Jake was done raking the sand bunker back to smoothness, Celia had chipped her ball onto the green, only rolling five feet past the pin this time. The three players mounted the green and Greg removed the pin and placed it on the ground.

"You're up, Jake," Greg said. "You get a stroke here but be sure not to miss this putt. I plan to get my bird."

Jake nodded and kneeled down behind his ball, looking at the slope of the green and trying to decide which way the ball was going to break. It appeared the slope was just a hair to the left so that meant if he aimed for the right edge of the cup it should, in theory, drop right into the center. He stood up and lined up, glancing from the ball to the cup a few times. He took a deep breath and struck the ball with his putter. His line had been just a little bit off but not enough to matter. The ball rolled smoothly across the green and dropped neatly into the cup.

"Nice sandy par," Greg said. "Now the pressure is on me to keep you from winning the hole."

Celia was further away from the cup than Greg was so she putted out, taking two strokes to do so and ending up with a five for the hole. Greg then stepped up to his ball and spent the better part of two minutes examining the green from three different angles.

"Come on," Celia said playfully. "Let's do it while we're young."

Jake laughed at her second reference of the day to Caddyshack but Greg didn't seem so amused. He shot her an irritated look before finally bending over his ball and making his stroke. His read was off. Instead of catching the center of the cup it hit the outside edge. For a second it looked like the ball was going to break loose and roll on by but it managed to hang on by the thinnest of margins. It swirled three times around the cup and dropped in.

"Yes!" Greg said, pumping his fist as if he'd just sunk the winning shot in the final round of The Masters and would soon be getting his green jacket.

He was once again jovial as they went back to their carts. He reached into his golf bag and produced two Cuban cigars and a cutting tool. He prepped them and handed one to Jake.

"What about Celia?" Jake asked. "Doesn't she get one?"

Greg acted as if this was a joke and gave a polite laugh. Jake glanced at Celia and saw she was shaking her head at him and giving a throat-cutting gesture with her finger. Jake nodded and brought up the subject no more.

The next hole was a long par five with a sharp dogleg right, a creek along the left side, and a green that was liberally guarded by lipped sand bunkers. Celia managed to hit her ball into every hazard there was and ended up with a ten. Jake and Greg both put their balls on the green in a regulation three strokes. Jake's ball was about thirty feet from the cup but he putted it close and then tapped in for a par. Greg's ball, on the other hand, was only about five feet from the cup. Eagerly anticipating another birdie he putted carelessly and missed long. He had to concentrate just to sink the next one for his own par. Since it was the number five handicap hole Jake got a stroke there and took the hole.

"All right," Greg said as he mounted the tee for the sixth hole. "I'm done screwing around. It's time to start kicking some rock star ass here."

"Bring it on," Jake said, puffing from his cigar and wishing for a beer.

It seemed that Greg was going to be true to his words. Though Jake shot a par on the next hole Greg got another birdie and won it. On the seventh, where Jake got a stroke, Greg was only able to pull off a par but Jake hit his second shot out of bounds and ended up with a six.

"All right now," Greg said as they wrote the scores down. "You are now three holes down for the nine, my friend. The automatic press has just kicked in."

Jake nodded. What that meant was that if he lost the next two holes he would owe Greg the original thousand for the nine plus another thousand for losing the press. It was time to buckle down and start playing like he meant it. Press, after all, was another way of saying pressure, and under pressure was the way Jake worked the best.

The eighth hole was a simple par three, the number seventeen handicap so Jake would get no stroke here. It turned out he didn't need one. Using his eight iron he dropped the ball less than three feet from the pin and was able to putt it in for a birdie. Greg landed on the green as well and rolled to a stop about five feet from the pin. Once again, however, he misread the slope of the green only this time he didn't get away with it. The ball deflected off the side and rolled six inches away. Greg tapped in for a par and lost the hole.

The ninth hole was a long par four with two creeks crossing the fairway in very inconvenient places. It was the number one handicap hole so Jake did get a stroke. Greg blasted his drive almost two hundred and eighty yards and then used a five iron to drop it on the green about twenty feet from the pin. Jake's drive was also quite impressive but his second shot was hit fat and stopped twenty yards short of the green.

"I've got my par in the bag," Greg told Jake as he approached his chip shot. "Remember, if you don't win this hole then the press is a tie and you'll owe me a thousand for the nine."

"No pressure though," Jake said with a smile. He then proceeded to pop his ball high into the air with a sand wedge. It landed less than eight inches from the pin.

"Nice shot," Greg reluctantly said.

"Thank you," Jake said. "Should I leave my putter in my bag?"

"There are no gimmees when a thousand bucks is at stake," Greg told him.

"As you wish," Jake said.

Greg tried his damndest to sink the twenty-foot putt. In the end, however, he came up short, leaving it less than three inches from the cup. He putted out for a par. After waiting for Celia to putt out for her seven, Jake stepped up and with a casual backhand flip of his putter knocked the ball into the hole for a four. With his stroke thrown in he had won the hole.

Greg was not ungracious. "Very nice," he told Jake, shaking hands with him. "I won the front nine but you won the press. That puts us even for the front."

"That it does," Jake said. "So... do they sell beer at this joint, or what?"

"They do," Greg said. "Let's go hit the bar before we go to number ten. I'll buy."

They ended up having two beers before taking to the back nine. As they sipped imported Fosters from frosted mugs and as Jake and Greg smoked cigarettes and tapped their ashes into a crystal ashtray, Celia asked Jake about the current state of his love life.

"Well, I don't lack for companionship when I want it," he told her. "I have been kind of busy with the flight lessons and all lately but when the uh... the need comes upon me there's always the Flamingo or one of the other clubs. I can always find a woman or two willing to be entertained for the evening."

"Or two?" Celia said playfully.

"Variety is the spice of life," Jake said while Greg grinned knowingly.

"No girlfriends though?" Celia asked. "Have you been seeing anyone more than once since you dated that college student?"

"No," Jake admitted. "I got kind of soured on the whole relationship thing after that. As a matter of fact my flight instructor just propositioned me for such a relationship the other day."

"Your flight instructor?" Greg asked. "This sounds interesting."

"Not really," Jake said. "She's cute and very nice and all, but I had to turn her down. I'm just not ready to get into another relationship with a woman. They never seem to work out and someone always ends up getting hurt."

"That's kind of a shitty attitude," Celia said.

"No, not at all," Greg interjected. "I know exactly where Jake is coming from here."

"You do?" Celia asked.

"I do," he said. "When one becomes a celebrity like we are it becomes very difficult, if not impossible, to maintain a romantic relationship with someone who is not a celebrity as well � or least someone who is not well-known or in the entertainment business in some way."

"Where did you come up with that crap?" Celia asked him.

"It's true," Greg insisted. "It's part of the two different worlds thing. The other half of the relationship simply cannot relate to what the celebrity is going through. They don't understand how women throw themselves at you, how everyone demands your attention all the time, how the lack of privacy is going to effect them. Assuming that the woman in question � or the man if it's a female celebrity � is not simply a gold digger of some sort, that she entered into the relationship with the best of intentions, it is inevitable that the long absences, the jealousy, the envy, the mistrust, and the fact that every aspect of their lives are thrown up on the front page of the damn American Watcher, is going to take its toll. Usually sooner rather than later."

"What a cynical point of view," Celia said.

"I prefer to think of it as a realistic point of view," Greg said. "Tell me, Jake, do you think I'm wrong about this?"

"I never really thought about it that way," he said, "but what you say does make a lot of sense. I won't go so far as to say it's impossible to maintain a relationship with someone outside the business but its certainly difficult. Just ask Rachel, my last girlfriend."

"That's hardly a good example," Celia said. "You cheated on her with a groupie while you were in Mexico."

"Well... yes, I did," Jake said, "but that was merely a symptom of the problem. I was never able to trust her even though, in retrospect, I realize that she probably truly did love me. I was always wondering in the back of my mind if she was trying to screw me in some way. I worried that she would try to get herself pregnant so she could get child support out of me, that she would start pressuring me to marry her, or that she was only with me for the publicity. Had I not been Jake Kingsley of Intemperance, if I'd just been Joe Blow who drove the garbage truck, I might've fallen in love with her. As it was, though, this instinctive mistrust of her kept my feelings for her from fully developing. Since they didn't develop I didn't bother resisting my urges in Mexico when the opportunity presented itself. Rachel was a sweet girl and I treated her like a servant, or, as she put it, like an employee. She was my hired girlfriend when I needed that particular thing in my life and she was entirely justified in telling me to shove my checkbook up my ass."

"Here here," Greg said, lifting his mug in salute to Jake's words. "You described the syndrome perfectly, Jake. People need to be with people who have common interests. That's why Celia and I get along so well together. She knows that everywhere I go women are throwing themselves at me, trying to get me to sleep with them, that they'll do anything to get it on with me. I know that everywhere she goes young men are doing the same to her. We both understand that we didn't do anything to encourage this and that it's just the way things are, right, C?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said, "I'm not saying that our relationship is not easier than if you were Jake's Joe Blow garbageman, or if I was a waitress in a restaurant, but I don't think that being from two different worlds necessarily rules out the possibility of maintaining a relationship. If two people are attracted to each other and there's no other reason not to pursue a relationship, then they should explore it." She turned to Jake. "How do you feel about this flight instructor, Jake? You said she's cute and very nice. Are you attracted to her?"

"Well... yeah," Jake admitted. "I suppose you could say that, but..."

"No buts," Celia said. "If you're attracted to her and she's attracted to you then you shouldn't dismiss her simply because she's not in the business. How would you feel if you walked away from her for such a petty reason as that and it turned out that she was actually your soulmate?"

"Oh Jesus," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "Here we go with the soulmate stuff again."

"Shut up," she said, slapping at his shoulder. "Soulmates exist. Sometimes people just don't know when they're looking at one."

"Have you found your soulmate?" Jake asked her, knowing it was an intensely personal question but interested in what her answer would be.

She looked at Greg who was looking at her, also curious about how she would answer. "I don't know," she finally said. "I like to think I have. I love Greg and I know he loves me. We're compatible with each other and we like the same things but I'm not sure that alone is what makes a soulmate. Sometimes, I think, it takes awhile for you to realize that you've found your soulmate."

"And does the reverse apply as well?" Greg asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Does it sometimes take awhile to realize that someone is not your soulmate?"

"I suppose it does," she said.

"And what happens when you've been married for five years and you suddenly realize this person is not your soulmate?" Greg asked.

"Or," said Jake, "when you've been married five years and you suddenly meet the person who is your soulmate?"

She smiled. "Interesting questions," she said. "And there is no correct answer. What any individual person would do in either of those circumstances is as varied as human personalities themselves. But I do believe one thing with all my heart."

"And that is?" Greg asked.

"Finding one's soulmate is very rare. I wouldn't think that more than one out of every hundred couples in this society are what I would define as soulmates. When such a thing occurs it should be cherished above everything else."

There was silence on the table as everyone pondered that thought. Finally Greg swallowed up the rest of his beer. "Well then," he said. "How about we go hit that back nine now? I got some money I need to win from Mr. Kingsley here."

"Let's do it," Jake agreed, finishing off his own beer.

They went back out to their carts and drove to the tenth hole. As they pulled up and walked up to the tee Greg pulled out two more cigars and prepped them. As he and Jake lit up Greg said, "You seem to be on your game now, Jake. Would you care to double the stakes for the back nine?"

"Double just for the back nine or for the entire eighteen?" Jake asked.

"Just for the back," Greg said. "I'm up a hole on you for the whole eighteen so it would hardly be fair to double that stake."

Jake thought it over and then smiled. "It sounds like a bet, Greg," he told him. "I believe I still have the honors?"

"I believe you do," Greg said.

Jake stayed on his game, helped along by the pressure he was being put under. Greg, on the other hand, seemed to be hindered by the pressure. Jake won number ten with a par. They pushed number eleven, another easy par three. Number twelve was a long par five and Jake was on the green in four and sank an eight foot putt for par, which, when coupled with stroke he got on the hole was enough to take the win. The thirteenth hole was the number two handicap but it turned out that Jake didn't need the stroke he was entitled to. He put his second shot on the back of the green and then sank the forty-five foot birdie putt. This put him up six holes to four for the game and, more importantly, put him three holes up on Greg for the nine.

"Looks like the old automatic press just kicked in," he told Greg, who was no longer in such good humor.

"I guess so," Greg said sourly.

Jake and Greg both shot pars on fourteen and fifteen. Since number fifteen was a hole Jake got a stroke on he went up one more hole there. At this point it was no longer possible for Greg to win the back nine. Number sixteen was another long par five but Jake did not get a stroke there. He shot par on this hole as well. Greg put his third shot close and was putting for birdie. Had he made it he would have won the hole. He didn't make it. He tapped the putt too hard and it rolled in and out of the cup.

"Damn it all," Greg said, looking at the sky in frustration. He knew the significance of missing the putt. By not winning number sixteen it was no longer possible for him to win the eighteen. The best he could hope for at this point was to win the next two holes and tie for the eighteen and the press. No matter what else happened though, he would still owe Jake two thousand bucks for the back nine.

Number seventeen was the clincher hole. Greg had to win it in order to stay alive. The number four handicap hole, it was a 198-yard par three over a lake. Jake still had the honors so he teed up and hit the ball fat with his four iron. It plunked into the lake five feet from the opposite shore.

"I think you just opened the door for me," Greg said, stepping up to the tee with renewed confidence. He then blasted a near perfect shot that came to rest six feet from the pin.

Jake walked up to the drop area and put down another ball. He took a few practice swings with his six iron and then made his shot. He connected solidly and landed the ball eight feet from the pin.

"Nice recovery," Greg said, clapping him on the back as Celia dropped her own ball in the drop area.

Once on the green Celia three putted and took her six. Jake then walked up to his ball and examined the lay of the green for a few seconds. It appeared there would be a significant break to the right. He aimed twelve inches to the left of the cup and took the shot. The ball broke just as he'd anticipated and dribbled into the hole with a clunk.

"Bogey four," Jake said. "And I get a stroke on this hole. Looks like the pressure's back on you, Greg."

"Looks like it," Greg said, walking up to his ball. If he missed this putt he would lose not only the back nine but also the entire eighteen and the press. He spent the better part of three minutes examining the shot from every angle. Neither Jake nor Celia disturbed him. Finally he leaned over the ball and putted. It wasn't even close. The ball rolled to a stop more than a foot short of the cup.

Greg ground his teeth for a few moments while looking off toward the ocean in the distance. Finally he turned around and shook Jake's hand. "Good game," he told him. "You play well in the clenches."

"That's where I'm at my best," Jake replied.

They played out the eighteenth even though it was meaningless to the bets at this point. Jake and Greg both shot par while Celia sank a long putt for a bogey. They headed back to the bar and had a few more beers while Greg pulled out his checkbook and wrote Jake a check for five thousand dollars.

"It's those damn strokes I had to give you that cost me the game," Greg said as he handed it over. "Next time we play I'm only giving you seven."

"Deal," Jake said, putting the check in his wallet.

Soon they said their goodbyes and Jake headed back to his house. He stopped at a bank and deposited the check on the way. After a two-hour nap he showered, got dressed in his going-out clothes, and then went out to the Flamingo. Within an hour he found himself a tall brunette who was willing to do anything he wanted.

Jake and Helen boarded a DC-10 the next day for their trip to Omaha to pick up Jake's plane. Jake had booked them first class, a form of air travel that Helen, with more than two thousand hours of flight time, had never experienced before. She marveled over the plush seats and the attentive stewardesses but seemed a little nervous as the aircraft actually began to accelerate for it's take-off roll.

"Something wrong?" he asked her as he watched her fingers gripping the armrests.

"I hate flying in these things," she told him.

He raised his eyebrows a little. "But you're a pilot," he said.

"That's exactly why," she said. "I'm not in control of this aircraft and I have no way of taking control. How do I know what kind of idiot they have flying this thing? How do I know what kind of morons they have maintaining it? How do I know what dimwits they have staffing the air traffic control computers? All it takes is one little mistake by any number of people and we're all a bunch of body parts scattered over a mountainside."

"Wow," Jake said as the jet lifted off the ground and began to climb into the hot summer sky. "I never really thought of it that way."

"You will," she assured him as the DC-10 banked to the left and the undercarriage whined with the retraction of the gear. "The more hours you get at the stick the more you'll hate putting your fate in the hands of others."

"Thank you for planting that thought in my brain," Jake said.

She giggled nervously as the plane completed its bank and nosed down a bit. "Anytime," she said.

Jake had been a little nervous about being in close proximity with Helen after what had happened the other day. His worries, however, seemed to be groundless. So far she was talking to him as she always had, with no indication whatsoever that she'd made a pass at him and he'd rejected her. He did wonder about her manner of dress though. She was wearing a sleeveless spaghetti strap top that displayed an impressive amount of her ample cleavage and a pair of denim shorts that showed off her tanned and muscled legs to their best advantage. Her hair was also styled and hanging loose instead of tied up in a ponytail and stuffed under her flight school baseball cap. And was that make-up she had on her face? It was a light coating to be sure but it was there. He wondered where she had even learned to apply make-up. Had her father taught her? And what did all of this mean? Had she not taken "no" for an answer? And if she hadn't, what was he going to do about it?

Yesterday he had been firm in his resolve not to get involved with Helen romantically. But Celia's words about soulmates and cynicism � as na�ve and innocent as they seemed on the surface � were spinning around and around in his head. Was there really any reason to deny himself what seemed at first glance an opportunity for a connection with a woman? He had warned Helen that she could get hurt if she hooked up with him hadn't he? Now that she had been told of the potential consequences of her actions didn't that absolve him of responsibility if he did, in fact, hook up with her and those consequences eventually came to pass?

You're rationalizing, his brain told him warningly. You're getting tired of sleeping with sluts all the time and you want another girlfriend figure in your life. Stay away from her or you'll treat her just like you did Rachel.

Jake could not deny that he missed having someone to call his girlfriend, that he missed being involved with a woman. But was that all he saw in Helen? Wasn't there something else there as well?

As soon as they passed through ten thousand feet the first class stewardesses began to make their rounds, offering complimentary drinks to all who cared to imbibe in them. Jake ordered a rum and coke. Helen ordered a beer.

"I didn't know you drank," Jake said.

"There's lots of things you don't know about me," she said with a smile.

They talked of neutral things during the four-hour flight. She told him about the softball league she was in and how they were poised to take the playoffs next month. They talked about the upcoming football season and how their respective teams were looking. She favored the Broncos since a big chunk of her childhood had been spent in Colorado Springs. Jake was still a Raiders fan even though they had defected from Oakland and were now taking up residence in Los Angeles, the city he hated perhaps more than any other. Jake told her of his golf game with Celia Valdez and Gregory Oldfellow the day before, including the Nassau he'd beaten Greg out of. She seemed fascinated with the story.

"It's just amazing, Jake," she said, her eyes shining. "You're telling me a story about playing golf with two famous people and I know you're not bullshitting me. That's a really weird feeling, you know?"

"I suppose," Jake said, although he really couldn't relate to that.

They landed at 6:33 PM, Omaha time (with Helen breathing an audible sigh of relief as the wheels thumped down on the runway) and managed to make it through the airport without anyone recognizing Jake's face. A limousine was standing by for them outside the terminal and they climbed inside for the twenty-minute trip to the Ferriday Hotel of Omaha, perhaps the nicest hotel available in this particular city. Jake had reserved two suites for them here. The plan was for them to stay overnight in Omaha and then go check out his new plane in the morning. They would then fly in hops to Albuquerque where another pair of suites was waiting for them. The day after that they would hop the rest of the way to Brannigan Airport.

"This is where we stay when the tour passes through here," Jake told her as they walked through the lobby with their carry-on bags to check in. "Not much of a view but the rooms are nice."

"I've never stayed in a suite before," she said as they waited for the elevator. "You're spoiling me."

"It's what I do best," he told her.

As they rode up to the tenth floor she asked nervously, "What... uh... are we going to do about dinner? Can we eat in the restaurant down there?"

He shook his head sadly. "Trust me on this, it really wouldn't be fun to be in a public restaurant with me. Once I'm recognized a third of the room will come over and ask for autographs, another third will start demanding that we be kicked out, and the other third will sit there and sneer at us. Before we're even served our main course someone will call the local news media and they'll show up in news vans and bring their cameras in and start filming us. They'll ask what we're doing here, who you are, and how many times I've beaten you up and raped you so far."

"Wow," she said, wide-eyed. "Is it really that bad?"

"In a place like Omaha, yeah, it's really that bad. Sometimes even worse."

"I guess being famous isn't all it's cracked up to be, huh?"

"It does have its down side."

The stopped at the top floor and the doors slid open. They stepped out into a spacious hallway and started heading for their rooms.

"So what are we going to do for dinner then?" she asked.

"Room service," he said. "Order anything you want. It'll go on my tab."

"Oh," she said slowly. "I see."

"Is something wrong?"

She gave him a small smile. "You're not really going to make me eat all alone in my room, are you?"

"Uh... well..."

"Come on, Jake," she said. "You made me endure four hours of hell on a commercial jetliner. The least you could do is invite a lady over to your room for dinner."

She had a point there. "Okay," he said. "Come over as soon as you get settled in and we'll eat."

Her smile grew wider. "I'll be looking forward to it."

Jake tried to suppress the thought that he was looking forward to it as well.

Ronald Dithers was the night manager of the hotel. He was thirty-eight years old and at the pinnacle of his career in hotel management. He hated his job and regretted each and every day his decision to drop out of college back in the late sixties in order to pursue a career in music. The music thing had never gone anywhere. Ronald had some talent as a guitar player but not enough to count. Instead of moving on to Hollywood, a recording contract, and a career filled with fame and fortune, Ronald had ended up working in the Ferriday Hotel and slowly making his way up the ladder of underlings. Without his college degree he could advance no further than his current position. He had not picked up his guitar in more than ten years now and it was doubtful he would even remember how to play it at this point in his life. His was a sad but common tale. For every Jake Kingsley or Matt Tisdale who made it, there were perhaps ten thousand Ronald Dithers' staffing hotels or driving garbage trucks or changing oil in Speedy Lube establishments.

Ronald had just returned from the sixth floor where he'd been dealing with a guest who had been trying to get a free room upgrade by complaining about a small stain that had been left in his bathtub. His stomach was sour as he walked through the reception area and his ears perked up as he heard Brittany Daniels and Meghan Jones, the two nineteen year old night clerks he often fantasized about but who had laughingly rejected his flirtations, talking excitedly to each other in whispered tones.

"He actually touched my hand when I handed him the key," Brittany was saying, her voice full of worshipful awe. "He touched it. Oh my Gawd! I can still feel it tingling."

"I am soooo jealous," Meghan said. "Did he like, just touch it, or did he, like give you a little rub."

"He rubbed," Brittany said dreamily. "He like totally slid his thumb over the back of my hand. And, you know, he like had this look in his eye while he did it too. Oh Gawd. I think I need to go change my..." She stopped as she saw Ronald standing next to her, listening in on the conversation. She blushed a little, embarrassed. "Oh... hi, Ron," she said. "What's up?"

"Uh... nothing," Ronald said. "What were you two just talking about?"

Brittany was too embarrassed to answer. Meghan, however, was not. "Jake Kingsley just checked in a few minutes ago," she said. "Why didn't you tell us he was going to be here?"

"Jake Kingsley?" Ronald said. "The singer?"

"What other Jake Kingsley would we be talking about?" Meghan asked snootily. "What's he doing here anyway? Intemperance isn't in town."

"Are you sure it was Jake Kingsley?" Ronald asked. "I wasn't told anything about a VIP visit. Maybe it was just someone who looked like him?"

"It was him," Brittany said. "I have every album Intemperance has ever made. I've stared at that face on those album covers a thousand times. Besides, he paid with a credit card. It had his name on it."

"Why didn't we know about this advance?" Ronald asked. "Was the reservation in his name?"

"His name didn't come up until I ran the reservation number," Brittany said. "So you really didn't know he was gonna be here?"

"No, I don't think anyone did. When we know that a VIP is going to be here we generally clear out the adjoining rooms, especially when it's a rock singer. Was he with anyone?"

"He had some slutty looking girl with big boobs with him," Brittany said. "Her name was..." She quickly checked her registration log. "She was someone named Helen Brody. They checked into two different suites up on the top, 1012 and 1014."

"She looked like a total slut," Meghan added. "And she's not even all that hot. I'm totally hotter than she is."

"Totally," Brittany agreed. "Both of us are. I wonder why they're in different rooms?"

"Why would they even be here?" Meghan asked. "Maybe they're gonna make a new video or something?"

"Yeah... totally!" Brittany said. "That has to be it! Why else would he be in Omaha?"

Ronald took a quick glance at the paperwork and the computer registration system. Within a minute he was able to satisfy himself that Jake Kingsley was, in fact, staying in the hotel and that he had paid for two suites with his credit card. The more he listened to Meghan and Brittany speculate about the possibility of Kingsley being here to shoot a music video, the more sense it seemed to make. After all, as Brittany had pointed out, what other business could he possibly have in Omaha?

"What's the name of that chick that does the Intemperance videos?" Megan asked. "Wasn't it Helen Brody?"

"No way, chick," Brittany said. "It's Erica Wilde. I saw her at the MTV awards. She's some fat slut with big-ass glasses. She's also doing the Earthstone and the Nevermind videos."

"Well then who is she?" Meghan asked. "We totally should have asked him when they checked in."

"Totally," Brittany agreed.

Ronald left them to their conversation and continued to his office. He closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk. He flipped through his rolodex and located the home phone number for a man named Jim Stinson. Stinson was the head of the entertainment department at the Omaha Register. As one of the managers of the most prestigious hotel in Omaha it was consequential that Ronald had contacts � albeit weak ones � with several local reporters and media types. After all, when someone famous did visit Omaha � something that happened from time to time � they inevitably stayed at this hotel. Entertainment reporters loved to dig up dirt on celebrities wherever it could be found and employees of the hotels they stayed in were a particularly rich source. This would not be the first time that Ronald had contacted Stinson on an Intemperance related subject. When the band had passed through on their last tour Ronald had provided him with a detailed list of how many girls had gone up to the rooms with the band after the show, exactly what had been ordered from room service, and exactly what the maids had cleaned up from the room the next morning (including an exact count of the empty condom wrappers recovered). This information had been printed in the Register two days later citing "an anonymous hotel employee" as the source.

Ronald dialed the number and Stinson answered on the third ring. They passed a few pleasantries and then Ronald got down to the business at hand.

"Do you know anything about Jake Kingsley being in town?" he asked.

"Jake Kingsley?" Stinson said. "No. I haven't heard a thing. Why do you ask?"

"Because he's staying here in the hotel tonight. He checked in just a few minutes ago with some woman named Helen Brody."

"Are you sure it's Kingsley?" Stinson said. "I haven't heard so much as a whisper about this."

"My two night clerks positively identified him and we have his credit card number and signature on the register. Also the two of them are in two different suites."

"Interesting," Stinson said. "And you have no idea what they are doing there?"

"My two clerks seem to think that he's here to shoot a music video."

"Where did they get that information?"

"I don't know," Ronald said. "Maybe Kingsley told them that."

"I've heard absolutely nothing about Intemperance shooting a video in Nebraska or anywhere else. They've already done all the videos they're going to do from their last album and they haven't even started recording their next album yet."

"I'm just telling you what I heard," Ronald said a little defensively.

"I know," Simpson soothed. "It's obvious there's something going on here. I'll start looking into this. You start looking into things from your end. Find out anything you can. Get a description of this Brody chick from your clerks. Get me a report on what they order from room service. Let me know about any phone calls they make or any visitors they have. Call me back if anything interesting pops up."

"Will do," Ronald said, knowing that if anything panned out from this information Stinson would lay some legal tender on him, maybe as much as a hundred dollars.

Jake's suspicions that Helen had not quite given up her aspirations of instigating a relationship with him were all but confirmed when he let her in the door to his suite an hour after they'd checked in. She had changed into a flowered summer dress that clung to her body, accenting her curves and her femininity in just the right way. The material of the dress was very light and very thin, the hem falling to just above her knees. The way her large breasts jiggled as she walked into the room told him that she wore no bra beneath it. Her hair was still damp from the shower she'd taken and the smell of freshly bathed female came drifting in with her.

"Thank you for inviting me, Jake," she said casually, as if her appearance hadn't been custom designed to give him an erection.

Jake smiled, fighting the urge to lick his lips. "No problem at all," he said. He waved to the couch in the sitting room. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you," she said, going over and taking a seat. As she sat, the hem of her dress rode up quite high on her thighs. She didn't bother pulling it back down.

"I see you showered and changed your clothes," Jake said, making no move to join her.

"Yes," she said. "I was all hot and sticky from the flight. I just loved that shower stall in my bathroom. It's so big."

"It is very nice, isn't it?"

She smiled sweetly, her eyes sending him a definite message. "Do you have the room service menu?" she asked.

"Sure," he said, picking it up from the table. He carried it over and handed it to her. "Why don't you take a look through it and see what you want?"

"Okay," she said. "Can you sit with me so we can look at it together?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes darting from her exposed thighs to those jiggling breasts to those seductive eyes. "I don't think that's a real good idea," he said.

She patted the couch insistently. "You're not afraid of me, are you, Jake?" she asked.

"No," he said, "but I'm beginning to think that your intentions are less than honorable."

"I won't do anything that you don't want me to do," she promised.

He chuckled. "That's supposed to be the guy's line."

"Well, I was raised by a man," she said. "Come on. Sit with me. What's the worst that could happen?"

Jake tried not to think about the worst that could happen. For the most part, he succeeded. He came around the couch and sat down about a foot from her. She immediately scooted over until her bare thigh was touching his. Jake looked at her pointedly.

"We have to be next to each other to read the menu, don't we?" she asked.

"I suppose so," he said.

They held the menu between them, both looking over the selections of steak dishes, chicken dishes, and pork dishes. Gradually Helen leaned even closer, until her shoulder was in contact with his. Jake ignored the contact until her hand dropped down onto his leg.

He gently reached down and removed it. "Behave yourself," he told her with mock sternness.

"I was never taught to do that," she said, putting her hand right back where it was.

Jake removed her hand again and then pulled himself away from her. The room service menu fell to the floor at Helen's feet. "Look, Helen," he said. "I thought I made my position quite clear the other day. You're my instructor, I'm your student. It's not right for us to get involved with each other. And even if that were not the case, I'm not someone you want to get involved with."

"Who said anything about getting involved?" Helen asked, unfazed by his words.

"You're trying to seduce me," he said. "If I were to give into you wouldn't you consider that getting involved?"

"No," she said simply.

"No?" he asked, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"I call it getting laid," she said. "It's been more than six months since I got laid last and that asshole was one of the deadest fucks I've ever had. I want sex from you, Jake, nothing more, nothing less at this point in time."

"That's real easy to say," Jake said. "Pretty hard to stick to in practice though."

"I was raised by a man," she said for the second time. "I've never had any meaningful female influence in my life except for those slutty bimbos my dad was always bringing home when I was growing up. I can take sex as it comes and keep my emotions out of it, just like a man. And I can pursue sex aggressively, like I'm doing now, just like a man."

"You do seem to have a knack for that," Jake admitted, his eyes drawn as if by magnetism to her upper thighs, which had spread apart just the tiniest bit.

"Are you attracted to me, Jake?" she asked him.

"Well..."

"Not as a person, not as a friend, but in a sexual way?"

He nodded. "Yes," he said. "Very much."

"And I'm very much attracted to you. I want to fuck you, Jake. I want to feel your cock slamming into me from behind. I want to suck you until you come and then swallow every drop. I want to feel your face between my legs, licking my pussy until it squirts all over you. Did I mention that I squirt?"

Jake swallowed slowly. "No," he said. "You didn't."

"Do you wanna see it?" she said, twisting a little so she was leaning back against the couch. "I can give you a demonstration. Right here and right now." Her thighs opened a little bit more, almost, but not quite, allowing him to see her heavenly gates. He was about half hard in his pants now, his big head fighting to remain in control of the situation.

"Helen, look," he said. "I think that maybe things are moving too fast here."

She shook her head. "No such thing," she told him. "We can do this, Jake, and not let it affect our friendship or our student/teacher relationship. I'm not like most women. I can fuck you today and act like nothing happened tomorrow. So why don't we do that? Why don't we enjoy each other on this little trip and then forget it ever happened when we get home?"

"I don't know," Jake said, still staring at her thighs, at the jiggle of her breasts beneath the summer dress. "I'm incredibly turned on right now but I don't want that to affect my judgement. I've had nothing but trouble with that in the past."

"Fuck judgement," she said, leaning forward and scooting close to him again. She reached out and grabbed his right hand in hers. Her fingers caressed his in a gentle, sexy manner. She put her mouth next to his ear. "I want you to touch my pussy," she whispered. "It's very wet right now and it wants your fingers to touch it instead of mine."

"Helen..." he croaked, the last vestiges of his self-control starting to crumble.

"Here," Helen said, taking his hand and pushing it downward. "Let me get you started."

She spread her legs apart and pulled his hand between them. He did not resist and he discovered she had left her panties in her room as well as her bra. He found himself touching a hot, slippery wetness and he was all but lost. He plunged two fingers into her and began to move them in and out.

"Oh... yes, Jake," she said, her eyes shining with lust. "That's it. Fingerfuck me. Do it hard!"

He fingerfucked her, doing it hard. She ripped open the front of her dress so hard that several of the buttons went flying across the room. Her breasts spilled out and he was completely lost. They were huge orbs, firm and obviously natural, perfectly shaped. Her nipples were large too and they were standing up proudly, just waiting for someone to put his mouth upon them. He buried his face between those magnificent mammaries, shaking his head back and forth, feeling the warm, soft flesh rubbing against the side of his face.

"Suck them, Jake," Helen groaned, her fingers running through his hair. "Suck my tits!"

He took one in his mouth and feasted upon it while continuing to jam his fingers in and out of her body. He slurped and suckled first one nipple and then the other while she moaned and encouraged him with unladylike profanity. When he began to smell the odor of her clean musk rising into the air around him he unlatched from her breasts and began to move south.

"Oh yes," she said as he dropped to his knees on the floor and pushed her knees apart. "Fuck yes! Eat my snatch! Make me squirt in your fuckin' face!"

Jake had never been squirted in the face before, or on any other part of his body for that matter. In truth, he thought the whole female squirting thing was nothing but a myth. He had been with countless women and had eaten dozens of pussies in his time and never had he encountered a woman who had done anything other than juicing a bit more than usual at the moment of orgasm. Though he had seen pornographic videos of alleged squirtings they had all looked like nothing more than urination to him. That thought gave him a bit of a start. Though Matt and Coop had been known to engage in water sports on occasion Jake thought the whole concept was disgusting.

"You're not going to pee on me, are you?" he asked her. "I'm really not into that."

"No," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "It's not piss. Trust me. You'll like it. Now eat me!"

He was still a little dubious but he did as requested. He pushed his face forward and began to lick up and down her lips. He gave her his best pre-treatment and then went after her clitoris, sucking it between his lips.

"Yes," she panted, her pelvis starting to rise and fall on the couch. "Now put your fingers back in me and angle them upward. Fuck me hard with them while you suck my clit."

"Mmm hmmm," Jake agreed, doing as requested.

"Suck harder!" she demanded. "More upward angle!"

He tilted his wrist lower so his fingers were putting considerable pressure on the upper wall of her vaginal passage. He sucked harder, hard enough that his mouth threatened to cramp up on him.

"Yes... yes!" Helen cried, her head shaking back and forth. "That's it! Keep doing that!"

He kept doing it and soon the unmistakable signs of approaching orgasm began to manifest themselves in her body. Her pelvis slammed up and down. Her vaginal walls clenched and released on his fingers. Her skin flushed and broke out in goosebumps.

"Almost... almost there," she panted, spreading her legs as wide as they could possibly be spread.

He sucked harder and kept plunging his fingers in and out. A high pitched whine emitted from her lips and suddenly she said, "Pull... pull your face away or... or you're gonna get a mouthful!"

He pulled his face away about six inches but kept up the finger action. She was moaning continuously now.

"Here it comes!" she squeaked as she put her left hand down just above her clitoris and pushed down with her fingers.

A shot of clear liquid blasted out of her and splattered across his face. Holy fucking shit! he thought, amazed. He knew instantly it was not urine. It had the strong, almost overpowering odor of sexual musk. It was the same liquid as the juices that made her slick and wet. Another shot squirted out and struck him directly in the mouth and then another shot him in the left eye, blinding it, making it sting. Two more shots came out but they didn't have the force to reach his face, they simply dribbled down on the couch and made a rather large wet spot.

Jake exhaled and the juice sprayed from his mouth. "Wow," he said, in awe of what he'd just witnessed. "It's not a myth."

"Fuck no," said Helen, who was still panting. "Did you like it?"

He licked his lips, tasting the strong tang of her juices on his lips. Slowly he nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I did."

"Good," she said, reaching down and grabbing him at the armpits. She pulled on him. "Now get up here and fuck me!"

He didn't need to be told twice. He didn't even bother taking off his shirt. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, quickly grabbed a condom out of it, and then dropped his pants and underwear in one motion.

"You won't need that rubber," Helen told him as he struggled to open it. "I'm on the pill."

Jake hesitated, having an instant flashback to Rachel and the fights they'd had over this very subject.

"What's the matter?" Rachel panted, reaching out and putting her hand on his erection. "Get this fucking thing in me!"

"Are you really on the pill?" he asked, looking into her eyes.

She opened her mouth to yell something at him and then stopped, seeming to think better of it. Her expression softened a little. "I'm really on the pill, Jake," she said. "I'm not looking to be a mommy yet, not even to a rich rock star's kid."

He sensed no deception in her eyes. Making a snap decision he tossed the unopened condom aside and sank himself into her body, bareback for the first time since Mindy Snow. The sensation was exquisite and the feeling of danger that came with it only enhanced it.

They coupled hard and fast on the couch, Jake still wearing his shoes, Helen still wearing her now-tattered dress. They grunted and groaned like animals, Helen licking the juices she'd squirted from Jake's face and then driving her tongue into his mouth. Jake basked in the sensation of slamming into her without a condom on, of the feeling of her tight walls clenching and releasing him.

Soon she was approaching orgasm again, her pelvis slamming back at him in the age-old rhythm.

"Back up a little," she told him, pushing him upright. "I can do it again."

He brought himself up straight and continued to thrust in her. She put her hand back on her pubis, just above her clitoris, and pushed. With a scream and a cry she came, squirting a less powerful but still substantial amount of juice out of her body, drenching his pubic hair and the shaft of his manhood.

This sensation was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. The circuit breaker that kept his orgasm at bay sizzled and fried and almost before he knew what was happening, he was pouring himself out into her body.

They collapsed together, lying skin-to-skin, clothing-to-clothing, exchanging a few deep, sexual kisses that were not the least bit romantic. When he was able to breathe normally again he raised up a bit and looked at her.

"I've had a lot of sex in my life," he said. "At times I started to think I'd seen and done it all. It's nice to know there really is something new under the sun."

She giggled, kissing him harshly on the neck and nipping at his skin. "And we've only just begun," she said. "We haven't even made it off the couch yet."

"I still have my shoes on," Jake said, making both of them laugh.

"Why don't we order dinner now?" Helen suggested. "I'll have the filet mignon with a baked potato and a salad."

"Okay," Jake said, climbing off of her, marveling at the huge wet spot they'd left on the couch. It was more than a foot in diameter. He had seen a lot of wet spots in his time but never one that large, not even during the last tour when he'd successfully completed a two by six and won a thousand dollars from Matt.

"I'm gonna take a shower while you're doing that," she said, standing up and letting her ruined dress fall to the floor, leaving her gloriously naked. "Why don't you join me while we're waiting for the food. I'll see if I can get you recharged for round two."

"Sounds like a plan," Jake said, his penis already starting to twitch in anticipation of more.

At 9:45 that night Ronald Dithers called Jim Stinson again. At this point Stinson was down at his office coordinating the group of photographers and reporters that would be descending on the Ferriday Hotel early the next morning. The editor of the paper was happy with the story his entertainment section was working on. There was really nothing else going on in the world at the moment that was newsworthy. Sure the Middle East was alive with strife but when wasn't it? And the election was approaching and both candidates were slinging mud at each other but there was nothing new on that front. And, of course, an Omaha police officer had shot an armed robbery suspect after a pursuit but he hadn't killed him so that story would only be a short blurb on the Metro page. This Jake Kingsley thing was news. Especially if it turned out he was with a new girlfriend and shacked up in one of the local hotels.

"What do you got for me?" Stinson asked once Ronald identified himself.

They had talked on the phone several times now since the original notification with Ronald sharing every detail he could glimmer. "I've confirmed that they're both in the same room," he told the reporter.

"How so?" Stinson asked.

"Kingsley ordered two room service meals sent to his room about forty minutes ago," he told him. "When our delivery guy brought the meals up there Kingsley answered the door wearing nothing but one of our robes."

"Was the broad anywhere to be seen?"

"No," Ronald told him, "but the server said the whole room reeked of pussy like he'd never smelled before."

"Nasty pussy?" Stinson asked, wincing at the thought.

"No, fresh pussy," Ronald said. "He said it smelled very clean, very fresh, just overwhelming."

"Hmmm," Stinson said, finding that interesting but knowing he couldn't very well print something like that in a family newspaper. "Intriguing, and slightly arousing, but not concrete. Do you have any facts that can put these two together other than the two meals and the robe? I mean, for all we know this Brody broad was in her room and Kingsley was getting it on with some cheap whore."

"Cheap whores don't smell like that," Stinson said.

"Good point, but again, unprintable."

"Well... there is one other thing," Ronald said hesitantly.

"Lay it on me," Stinson said.

"Well... I had reason to believe that maybe there was a faulty toilet up in Ms. Brody's room."

"Oh really?" Stinson said, grinning.

"Yeah," Ronald said. "So I went up there to check it out. I knocked on her door and no one answered. In the interests of my guest's safety I went inside just to make sure everything was all right. Ms. Brody wasn't there."

"She wasn't, huh?" Stinson asked. "Can quote you on that?"

"As an anonymous employee, of course," Ronald said.

"Excellent," Stinson said. "Did you get any other information from her room?"

"Well... as a matter of fact, it seems that Ms. Brody left her purse open on the counter and her wallet lying out. I couldn't help but get a glance at the contents."

Stinson's grin widened considerably. This guy was one of the best sleazebags he'd ever employed as a snitch. "And what might you have observed?"

"Her full name is Helen Anne Brody," Ronald said. "Her address is 22355 Templeton Road in Ventura, California. Her date of birth is..."

"Slow down," Stinson said. "I need to write this down."

Ronald slowed down, repeating all the information again. "Her date of birth is 3-27-64. Her social security number is 346-66-2130. She has a MasterCard and an ATM card from the Bank of Ventura. She holds a pilot's license and an instructor pilot certificate."

"A pilot?" Stinson asked. "No shit?"

"I saw them with my own eyes. The number on her pilot's license if C7886554. It was originally issued to her on March 27, 1982. She received her instructor certificate on September 24, 1986. I also... uh... found a picture that had apparently fallen out of her wallet out in the hallway in front of her door."

"Did you now?"

"Yeah," Ronald said. "It's a picture of her and some old guy standing in front of an airplane. I'll fax it to you as soon as the line is clear."

"Excellent," Stinson said. "You've done well indeed, Ron."

"Do you have any idea what Kingsley is doing here?"

"Not yet," Stinson said. "But you can bet your ass we're going to find out. The public has a right to know after all."

Intemperance and their manager, Pauline Kingsley, now knew why National Records management had been so lackadaisical about the submission date for new songs for the next album. It hadn't been out of any concern for the health and well-being of the band or its members, nor had it been because they thought the band would produce better if they had a nice vacation prior to the composition process. No, National had kept nicely in character when they'd pushed the submission deadline back to November. It's In The Book was still high on the top ten list of album sales. Radio stations across the country, as well as in Europe, Australia, and Japan were still playing almost every song on the album multiple times a day. Even the deep cuts that had never been intended for radio play were being spun by disc jockeys and enjoyed by the listening audience. In short, Book had turned into the best-selling album that National had put out in more than a decade and, as a result, they didn't want to hamstring it by introducing any new Intemperance material too soon. As such, they'd decided long before sharing their strategy with the band itself that they were not going to release a new Intemperance album in the coming year. In effect, they'd bowed out of the 1988 option period and had instead decided to focus on a new project for the band.

"We're going to put out a live album early next year," Crow told them in a meeting one morning.

"A live album?" Pauline asked.

"You bet your ass," Crow said. "We've got almost sixteen hours worth of live tracks recorded in Detroit over the past three tours. We're going to compile them into a double live album and package it with a small photo book of band tour photos. The album will wholesale for eleven dollars and retail for sixteen. At the same time, we'll release a concert video that's also compiled of the video shoots we've done at the Detroit shows. This video will wholesale for six dollars and retail for nineteen."

The band had been suspicious about this idea at first � they were automatically suspicious of everything National came up with � but eventually they warmed to it, especially after National officially rejected the new album option for this year and relieved them of the legal obligation to submit new material by mid-November. All figured it was probably for the best anyway. The profit potential of such an album was hard to ignore. At a retail rate of sixteen dollars per album, that meant the band would receive $2.88 for each one sold � and such an album would probably sell three to four million at the very least. That did not include the video sales either. The band received eighteen percent royalties on all videos sold in their name. The money, however, was not the main reason why the band quickly embraced the idea of taking a year off from new material. The harmony that had once existed between them at jam sessions no longer seemed to be as harmonious as it once had.

The band had gotten together a few times to try to hash out some songs for the next album and these sessions had inevitably erupted into arguments over the material in question. Jake didn't like many of the new songs Matt was trying to introduce because they were too hard-core and most utilized a modification of the heavy palm-muted chords technique he was experimenting with. Matt didn't like most of Jake's new songs because they were too soft or too bluesy and a few of them did not have enough strong lead guitar for his taste. Nerdly wasn't fond of much of anything the two of them came up with, writing all of it off as too musically simplistic and bland. Nerdly wanted more complexity, more tempo changes, more four-part harmony backing up Jake's lead vocals, more different styles of music so that when he mixed it he could be challenged by the compositions. Nerdly longed to put together a musical masterpiece that would be remembered for hundreds of years after his death. And then there was Charlie. He was just strange, always worrying about tapeworms and bacterium and wiping off his bass guitar every time he had to go to the bathroom or turn up his amplifier. Coop, the only one without strong opinions, was just frustrated with the lack of progress and spent much of these sessions sitting behind his drum set smoking cigarettes and rolling his eyes.

"What the hell is happening to you guys?" Pauline had asked after three such sessions in which they'd only agreed to start working on a single song � Jake's She Cut Me Loose, the song he'd written about his failed relationship with Rachel. "Both you and Matt are telling me you've come up with nine to ten songs apiece for the next album and all you're doing is arguing about them?"

"I think we've grown too big for our condoms," Jake had replied.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"It's like this," he said. "Matt and I are the ones who compose the lyrics and basic musical melody of our tunes. Nerdly is the one with the best ideas about how to fine-tune those basic tunes into the end product that shows up on the albums. Sure, the other two throw in suggestions on minor points, but Nerdly is the one who has the best ear for mixing the various instruments together in a way that gives us our unique sound."

"Okay," she said. "It sounds like a system that's been working well ever since the D Street West days. So what's the problem now?"

"The problem now is that we've all grown � musically if not emotionally � and we've grown in different directions. We've all developed our own ideas about what we should be doing and those ideas tend not to jibe with each other. Nerdly is into mixing and utilizing the best new techniques of blending the music together. He wants to be a fucking maestro who turns us into a mixture of Boston and Pink Floyd with all the overdubs, synthesized voice and guitar tracks, and unnecessary tempo changes. Matt, on the other hand, is edging more towards the hard-core heavy metal sound, complete with palm-muted chords or approximations of them, a pounding back-beat, and two heavily distorted guitars on every track. He wants no overdubs of any kind and he's starting to push for Nerdly's piano to be more of a backing track instead of one of the main instruments. And then there's me. I'm not blameless in all of this either. Most of the songs I've composed for this next album are heavy on the acoustic guitar tracks and the piano and not as heavy on the harsh, crunching lead guitar. I'm starting to favor more of a blues approach to the lead guitar instead of the classic loud, overriding electric distortion. I'm also in favor of using Charlie's bass guitar as more than just a means to set the beat. The guy is one of the best bass players I've ever heard. He can do things with his instrument that Darren can only dream about. As long as he's in the band I think we should take advantage of that."

"Can't you guys come together with your three points of view and combine them into something?" she asked. "It would seem that is the logical conclusion."

"And hopefully that's what we'll do," Jake agreed. "We've only had a few sessions now. We'll get a list together by the deadline. We always do."

Most likely they would have, had they been allowed to continue. Now, however, with the new album on hold in favor of a live album, the band found something else to argue about. This argument, however, was not with each other, at least not at first. It was with their oldest and most formidable enemy � Crow and the rest of National's production team.

National had the right to put together either a live album or a Greatest Hits album at any time during the duration of their ownership of the rights to the Intemperance collection of songs. The band could have argued until blue in the face, could have screamed and threatened lawsuits, but the language of their contract was quite clear on this issue. National owned the rights to all tunes recorded by Intemperance, including live tracks, for twenty-five years beyond the expiration of the contract itself and they could do with them what they wished. The same contract, however, gave the band the right to oversee the development and production of any album bearing the Intemperance name, including the right to decide which tracks went on the album (subject to veto by National management), what order they went on, and how the final mix of the tunes in question were done. These were rights that Jake, Matt, and especially Nerdly insisted upon utilizing for the live album.

Crow had tried to talk them out of it, of course. "Look, guys," he said. "Just keep enjoying your vacation. We've already given you the standard advance money for the live project so your bank accounts are back to overfull again. Travel, ride your dirt bikes, go fishing, fly your airplanes, run your restaurants. In short, enjoy yourselves. The live tracks are already recorded and only have to be mixed. We don't really need any of you in the studio for any of this � at least not until the final mix when we might have to do some overdubs on some of the weaker tracks."

"Overdubs on a live album?" Matt asked, fuming. "Don't even fucking think of it!"

"You think I'm going to allow some National Records technician to mix a live album?" Nerdly asked. "I will be there for every session."

"Me too," Jake said. "There's no way in hell we're going to let you throw something together with our name on it without consulting with us. We'll come up with the track list and give approval for all tunes put on the album."

As much as the band was stuck consenting to the production of the live album in the first place, National was similarly stuck with allowing the band to exert their control over that production. It was, after all, in their contract. So instead of enjoying themselves with travel, meaningless fornication, gross intoxication, and every other excess the members of Intemperance were so famous for, the three core members were now showing up at nine o'clock sharp five mornings every week and working in the studio usually until six in the evening � sometimes later. Every week, it seemed, there was a fresh clash between the band and their management over the vision for the album in question.

The first battle had come over the name of the album. National was pushing for something along the lines of Let The Darkness Descend or Falling Between The Cracks (making reference, of course, to the infamous coke from the butt crack session that had taken place during their first tour). Nerdly had come up with the title: Thrills Alive, making reference to Intemperance's most popular live song � The Thrill Of Doing Business. Although both Jake and Matt had thought Nerdly's idea a good one they did not wish to put any emphasis on one particular song. After a drunken, stoned session at Jake's house one night they had come up with what would become the actual title: Intemperance � In Action. Nerdly, upon hearing it, had quickly agreed (although he still liked his idea better).

"In Action?" Crow had complained when told about it. "That's boring! I'd be more inclined to go with Bill's idea than that."

"And we'd be forced to go along with you if it were you making the final decision," Jake said in return. "But you're not. We've already made up our minds, Crow. In Action it's going to be."

From there the arguments had spread to what the album cover itself was going to look like. National favored some sort of satanic imagery, of course, while the band wanted nothing more than a wide angle shot of them on stage and performing. That led to the issue of just who should be seen in the onstage picture. Should they use a shot where Darren was playing bass or one where Charlie was playing? National didn't really give a shit either way since their satanic imagery had been shot down, but all five members of the band had strong feelings about this particular subject. Matt and Coop both insisted that Darren's picture be on the cover shot.

"Darren is the real bass player for this band," Matt argued. "No offense, Charlie, but we hired you as a replacement while Darren is recovering from the fuckin' botulism. You'll get credit on the tracks you played on and you'll get your share of the royalties from the album, but you don't get to be on the front."

Jake and Nerdly both disagreed with this logic. "We already know we're going to use the tracks recorded on the last tour for most of the basic tunes," Jake said. "Those were the recordings with the best sound quality because they were using newer equipment. Charlie is playing on those tracks, not Darren. His picture is the one that belongs on the album cover."

"Then we'll just have to use the older tracks for the basic tunes," Matt said.

"I apologize, Matt," Nerdly cut in at this point, "but I must strenuously disagree with that idea. The older tracks are palatable and can be mixed into something of LP quality, but they are inferior to the latest tracks from the Book tour. I was personally able to set the levels on those tracks and they are pristine."

The argument started to get quite heated before Charlie himself stepped in. "Dudes," he told them. "I don't care if Darren's on the front of the cover or not. Put him on there. I know I'm just the replacement. I'm happy enough that I'm even involved in this at all. I was about to jump off a building before you guys let me in the band. Why should I care if my picture is on the front or not?"

Jake tried to keep arguing on Charlie's behalf even though Charlie himself was in favor of the Darren shot. It seemed a matter of honesty and principle. If Charlie was the one who had played bass on the majority of the album's tracks, he should be the one to be featured on the cover. In the end, however, Nerdly took the side of Charlie, Matt, and Coop, not because he thought they were right but because he knew that this was ultimately a stupid thing to be arguing about. Jake was left standing alone on the issue and was forced to give in.

The next argument � and the major one � had to do with the track list itself. There was room for ninety-six minutes worth of recording material on the double album. Everyone agreed that all of Intemperance's major hits � those that had breeched the top ten list and those that had received extensive airplay � should be featured. This was a total of sixteen songs which, when mixed, would account for sixty-eight of those minutes. That left twenty-eight minutes that needed to be filled. Everyone had their own idea of what should be put into those twenty-eight minutes.

National wanted to simply fill the time in by putting another six tunes from the first four albums, leaning particularly heavy on the deep cuts from It's In The Book. Since those deep cuts were still receiving airplay it seemed, to them anyway, the most logical and easiest course of action.

Nerdly, on the other hand, was in favor of filling some of the time with Jake's between song banter � which had been recorded along with the music � and then adding two or three new studio cuts to the end of the album. He was the only one who liked that particular idea and National out and out forbid it the moment it was suggested.

Matt wanted to fill up a good portion of this time by putting in the various solos that had been performed as part of the live act. Mixed in with the recordings were more than seventy-five minutes worth of guitar solos, piano solos, drum solos, and even a bass solo from the last tour. If they were interspersed throughout the album they could eat up ten to twelve minutes of that twenty-eight and give those that had never been to an Intemperance show before some sort of sense of what they were missing.

Jake liked this idea and then expanded upon it. If they were going to put in the solos, why not put in some of the tracks they'd done during the earlier tours, tracks that had never been released to the public in record form, that had only been played live?

There were three such songs available to them. One dated back to the D Street West days. It was called Life Of Toil and had been written by Matt, recorded on the first demo tape they'd submitted to national when they'd first signed on, but never included on any album because it was over seven minutes long. Still, it was a hard-rocking tune that featured an extended guitar, piano, and drum duel between Matt, Nerdly, and Coop just prior to the closing verse and it played so well live that they'd used it in the The Thrill Of Doing Business tour as a space filler. Thus, it had been recorded in Detroit on the night that Darren had first openly smoked marijuana before stepping onto the stage.

The other two songs had been penned by Jake. The first, Twisted Logic, was one that had gone on the original demo tape Ronald Shaver had used to sign them to that original contract, but, for one reason or another, it had always been bumped from subsequent albums. It too had been recorded in Detroit during the Thrill tour. The second was called This Life We Live. Written initially for the Balance Of Power album, it was a long, ballad-like piece about the downside of being a celebrity, about the isolation and mistrust that came with the job, about the lack of privacy.

Jake, Matt, and Nerdly had elected not to put This Life We Live on the album for several reasons. Part of it was the length of the tune. It had four verses, a bridge, several sections of quiet acoustic guitar strumming and piano keys, and an extended guitar solo. Part of it was the song had some parallels to I Found Myself Again, the road song from that album. Mostly, however, they just thought the song was just a little too mellow to fit in with the harder rocking tunes from that album, that it would be more of a contrast then an accompaniment. Still, the band all liked the tune a lot, even if it wasn't quite classic Intemperance material, so they'd included it as part of the play list for the Balance Of Power tour and it too had been recorded live during their swing through Detroit on that tour.

"Let's do it," Matt said, when the idea of including these three tracks was broached. "We'll put in the solos as stand-alone pieces, throw in a few bits of Jake's between-song banter, and then intersperse these three tunes throughout the rest of the album."

"They're all too long for singles," Jake said, "but I bet they'll pick up some decent FM airplay on the hard rock stations."

"I'd really like to get a good listen to those tapes first," said Nerdly. "Especially for Toil and Twisted. They were recorded back during the Thrill tour. They might sound like nothing but fecal matter."

"They'll sound fine," Matt said. "Once we get it mixed and adjusted they'll sound as good as studio cuts."

The next argument began when they told Crow of their plan to include the unrecorded tracks.

"No way," he said, shaking his head before they were even done verbalizing. "We can't put unreleased material on a live album."

"Why not?" Jake asked.

"You just can't," he said. "I'm cool with the solos and the between song crap � people eat that shit up � but nobody wants to hear new music on a live album. They want to hear your classic tunes played live."

"And they'll get that," Jake said. "Every last one of our standard airplay tunes will be on the album. The unrecorded tracks will be bonus material to help sell the album, particularly if they get FM airplay."

"There's no precedent for this sort of thing," Crow said.

"Actually, there is," said Jake. "Frampton put unrecorded material on his live album. So did Cheap Trick and Journey."

"They are not National Records bands," Crow said. "What if those songs became popular? We can't release them as singles because they're all over four minutes long."

"So, in other words," said Matt, "you won't make any money off of them."

"We are a business," Crow said huffily. "If we go to the trouble of putting out a product, we should make money off of it."

"You'll make money off those songs because they'll help sell the album," Jake said patiently. "If they start to play them on the radio and people like them, they'll have to buy the album in order to get copies of them. It's the same principal behind not releasing It's In The Book as a single, remember?"

"Well," Crow had to admit, "you do have a good point there."

"Besides," said Matt, "those fuckin' recordings aren't making any of us any money right now, are they? They're sittin' in some vault somewhere."

This too, Crow had to admit, was a compelling argument. He took the proposal to Doolittle and Casting, expecting them to reject it out of hand and order him to start pressuring Jake and Matt � the true ringleaders of the band � to go along with the original plan of including deep cuts from Book. This was something he was not looking forward to because such confrontations were usually nasty, frightening, frequently unsuccessful, and always caused his ulcer to flare up. To his surprise, however, Doolittle and Casting both readily agreed to the plan.

"We don't give a shit what they put on that album as filler," Doolittle told him. "As long as the basic airplay tunes are there and the filler is legal and clear, the album will sell. The airplay tunes are what is going to sell the damn thing. Who knows? Maybe Kingsley is right and the unreleased tunes will help."

"The important thing," said Casting, "is that we get that album mixed, produced, and into the stores by late October, early November at the latest."

"For the Grammy Awards next year?" Crow asked, wondering what was so important about that. All the album could qualify for would be Best Live Album � a nothing category announced early in the show.

"That would be nice," Doolittle said. "But that's not the reason."

"It's not?"

"No," Doolittle said. "We have another little project for the boys come January."

"We do?" Crow asked.

They did. Doolittle filled Crow in on the details.

"Wow," Crow said. "That's going to be expensive. Are you sure the band is going to go along with it?"

"We'll have to make sure they go along with it," Doolittle told him. "The money-making potential is simply too great to ignore.

"When are we going to tell the band about this?" Crow wanted to know.

"We'll wait until they're well into production of In Action and then we'll spring it on them. Trust me, they won't say no."

National Records Building, Los Angeles

September 10, 1988

Matt, Jake, and Nerdly were in the main mixing room of the basement studio, headphones in their laps, their faces red, their voices loud as they discussed the issue of Matt's song Life Of Toil, which they were trying to mix for inclusion on the master recording.

"I'm telling you guys," Nerdly said, his eyes burning. "That entire recording is sub-standard. Those morons at the mixing board during the Thrill tour had no intercoursing idea what they were doing. The lead guitar tracks are too much in the high end and the piano and rhythm are too much in the low. The drums and bass are all over the place."

Jake was leaning forward, covering his eyes in frustration. So far they had mixed two songs and they had had this argument with Nerdly on both of them. Nerdly was particularly passionate in this case. Toil was the first tune from the Thrill Of Doing Business tour � the tour in which Nerdly had had no hand in the sound levels. "Look, Bill," Jake said (he was much more likely to call Nerdly by his Christian name when he was frustrated and/or pissed off at him). "I listened to those tracks just like you did. I'll give you that they're not as good as the ones you did, but they're not that bad. We can work with them."

"They're unsalvageable," Nerdly insisted. "If we go with them, the quality won't match the rest of the recording."

"Your fuckin' face is gonna be unsalvageable if you don't knock this shit off," Matt said angrily. If Jake's frustration level was approaching the red, Matt's had already gone off the chart and into the abyss.

"I don't see how threatening me with physical violence is going to rectify this dilemma," Nerdly replied. "We need a solution to this disparity of quality in the tracks."

"You know what the fuckin' solution is, you moron!" Matt yelled. "We tweak the levels until they blend! We turn down the lead guitar a little and turn up the rhythm and the piano. We turn the bass and drum tracks up or down as needed. In other words, we fuckin' mix! We do what we've been doing for the other two tunes we did. That's what mixing is, remember?"

"There is no way we could make it work at optimum reproductive quality with the material we have available to us," Nerdly insisted, getting a little pissed off himself now. "You know what we need to do, Matt. So do you, Jake. You're both just too damn traditional to do it."

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill him, Jake," Matt said. "If he suggests overdubs one more time, I'm going to stomp his fucking head into the ground."

"We have to overdub this song if you want to include it on the album," Nerdly said.

"That's it," Matt said, standing up so fast his chair rolled four feet backwards. His headphones thunked to the floor in a tangled heap. "It's time for some fucking physical violence. Prepare to bleed, Nerdly."

Jake quickly stood and intercepted Matt before he could make it to Nerdly's position. He didn't think Matt was actually serious about hitting him, but with Matt you could never be sure. He put his hands on Matt's shoulders and pushed him back a few feet. "Chill, Matt," he said soothingly. "This ain't gonna help."

"Sure it will," Matt said. "Just let me gouge out one eyeball and you'll see how much it helps."

"You just don't want to admit I'm right," Nerdly said, standing his ground. "You're regressing to your Neolithic base instinct in response to your internal realization of your unfathomable position."

"I am not!" Matt yelled. "And what the fuck does that mean, anyway?"

"Sit down, Matt," Jake said, propelling him backward until he practically fell into his chair. Matt didn't resist.

"You cool?" Jake asked him.

"No, not really," Matt said.

"Good," said Jake. "Just don't attack anyone, okay? You might hurt your hand."

"Okay," Matt said, nodding.

"Jake," Nerdly said. "You know I'm right, don't you? I know you're opposed to the principle of overdubbing this live album � although I don't see why � but you heard the same tracks I did. Tell him we have to redo the lead and rhythm guitar at the very least."

"You agree with that prima donna faggot, Jake and I'll gouge your fuckin' eyeballs out too!" Matt yelled. "You know I can do it! You know I let you push me back to this fuckin' chair!"

"Matt... chill," Jake said, holding up his hand to him.

"Here we go now," Nerdly said, disgusted. "This is where you agree with him just because you're afraid of him."

"Don't start that shit with me, Bill," Jake said, turning on him. "You're talking out of your ass now."

"Do you agree with him or not?" Nerdly asked.

"I agree with him," Jake said. "But not because I'm afraid of him. I agree because he's right."

"Goddamn right I'm right," Matt said.

"In your opinion," Nerdly said. "There is nothing wrong with overdubbing a live album in order to achieve optimum audio quality."

"Then why not just re-record all the fucking tracks and throw in some fake audience noises and call that live?" Matt asked. "The whole goddamn thing could be like Benny and the fucking Jets!"

"That's not the same thing," Nerdly insisted.

"That's where you're wrong, Bill," Jake said. "It is the same thing. There isn't a line there. There is no gray area in this subject. It's black and white. Recording anything new in a studio and overdubbing it onto what is supposed to be a live album is dishonest, possibly fraudulent."

"I can't accept that," Nerdly said. "Under that logic, the fact that we're even mixing these tracks is fraudulent. After all, we didn't sound like that on the stage, did we?"

"That's the stupidest argument I've ever heard you make," Jake told him. "How can you not see the distinction? We recorded all of those tracks on stage in front of an audience. There's nothing wrong with mixing them to make them sound their best. There is something wrong with re-recording any portion of a live track in a studio and passing it off as live."

"You don't understand," Nerdly started.

He didn't finish. Matt had finally had enough. "No," he interrupted. "You don't fucking understand, so I'm gonna make you understand. We will not overdub anything on any tune on this album, period!"

"Then we can't use this tune!" Nerdly insisted.

"We will use this tune!" Matt yelled. "I'm not throwing out a perfectly good tune just because you're such a fucking perfectionist that you can't work with less than immaculate material. Now you can either accept this and help us mix this fucking tune or you can get the fuck out of here and me and Jake will do the rest of the album without your ass!"

"You can't make me leave!" Nerdly said.

"Try me, motherfucker," Matt said. "Jake, are you behind me on this shit?"

"Yeah," Jake said with a sigh. "I'd hate to do it to you, Bill, but I'll be forced to back Matt on this if you don't mellow out a little and start working with us. You're not doing anything but hampering production at this point."

"And you can bet your ass that if Jake and I go to Doolittle on this, you're gonna lose," Matt said. "They'll file a fucking restraining order against your ass to keep you out of here if they have to."

"You wouldn't dare," Nerdly said. "There's no way the two of you could finish this album without me."

"You're wrong about that, Bill," Jake said, jumping in before Matt could. "I'll admit it probably wouldn't sound as good without you helping us, but we both know enough about mixing to pull it off. And we're not bluffing here. We'll do it if you force us. So how about we just don't go there? It'll do nothing but create a bunch of hard feelings that will never go away, and force us to release an album that's not all it should be. You're good at this mixing shit, Bill, but you need to mellow out a little and work with what we have."

Nerdly was clearly not happy about this. Being threatened with banishment by his band mates had clearly pissed him off to the highest degree. The threat and Jake's appeasement of his ego seemed to get through to him, however. He slowly unclenched his fists and un-gritted his teeth.

"All right," he said. "It's under protest, but I'll go along with you."

"The protest is noted," Jake said. "Now how about we get to work on this thing?"

They got to work. The first thing Nerdly did was get on the inter-department phone and call for Sharon Cohen. Sharon was a twenty-three year old post-graduate student from UCLA who was interning at the studio while working on her master's degree in audio engineering � a highly specialized field that dealt almost entirely with music and other sound recording. A shy, mousy, unassuming girl who favored loose, baggy clothing and who wore a pair of coke-bottle glasses, she nevertheless had quite the ear for music reproduction. She had been assigned to assist the band at the beginning of the project with things such as coffee making and sandwich fetching but Nerdly had taken her under his wing when he realized the un-tapped potential she held. It was rare that the two of them were not together when actual mixing was being done.

"Is he boning her yet?" Matt asked Jake as Nerdly got up to open the door for her.

"Not yet," Jake said. "He says he doesn't think of her that way."

"She is a bit on the homely side," Matt said. "Probably only a little better than jacking off."

"I think he's in love with her," Jake said. "You see the way he lights up whenever she's in the room?"

Matt shrugged, disinterested. After all, he'd once written a song entitled Who Needs Love? "She probably hasn't been boned much," he said. "I bet her pussy is really tight. A girl like that wouldn't take it up the ass though. Hell, she might not even swallow."

"I'm sure we'll get a full report when he takes that step," Jake said.

"If he's not too pissed off at us to fill us in," Matt said. "You think we went too far threatening him like that? I don't think I've ever seen him that pissed off before."

"Well, threatening to gouge out his eyeball might've been a bit over the edge," Jake said, "but overall, I think we did what needed to be done. Let's see how it goes."

"Yep," Matt agreed. "If nothing else, I think we at least got through to his ass this time."

They may have gotten through to him, but he was far from happy with them. As they went through the tracks of Life Of Toil one by one, making preliminary notes on what direction the adjustments needed to be made and trying to set a baseline sound level, Nerdly remained professional but aloof to his two band mates. He participated in no unnecessary conversation with them and when he did have to talk, his words were short and to the point.

His conversations with Sharon, on the other hand, were animated and in-depth as she cued up the tracks on the tape machines or jotted down levels on a note pad for him. He talked to her about some of his adventures in the studio over the past year, sharing anecdotes about how some of the clueless technicians were actually trying override a snare drum with a cymbal, or how they dared to suggest compiling a synthesizer track atop a bass rhythm in his presence. Sharon listened with wide-eyed interest that bordered on worship. Later, as the day progressed, she made mention of her plans for the upcoming High Holy Days. This led them into a long, incredibly boring discussion of the basic differences and conflicts between the Judaism faith and the various sects of Christianity.

Through this all, despite his anger at his colleagues and his obvious infatuation with the young, mousy intern, Nerdly remained true to his word and did his very best with the tracks that were presented to him. He made no more comments about how they should overdub the recording, made no more suggestions about scrapping the entire song. By the time four o'clock rolled around, they had made significant progress on the preliminaries of mixing the tune.

A knock came on the studio door. When Jake opened it he found Pauline standing there. His sister was wearing her standard business attire of a conservative, knee-length skirt, nylons, and a matching blouse and vest combo. Her hair was done up in a bun and her jewelry was both minimal and tasteful. She carried a leather briefcase in one hand.

"Hey, sis," Jake greeted. "What are you doing here?"

"Well," she said, "apparently we all have a meeting in fifteen minutes with Crow and Doolittle."

"We do?" Jake asked.

"What the fuck?" asked Matt. "Nobody told us nothing about no meeting."

"What's it about?" Nerdly wanted to know.

Pauline answered them one by one. "Yes we do, nobody told me anything either until an hour ago, and I don't know what it's about. They just said it was important and that all five of you and myself should be there."

"Freak-boy is still in Birmingham, isn't he?" asked Matt, using his recently coined nickname for Charlie.

"Yes," Pauline said. "He's been there for the past month. And Coop is in some place called Glamis with his motorcycles. It's down in the desert somewhere about three hours away. He won't be able to make it either."

"They specified that you should be here?" Jake asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I don't know if that means anything though. I've specified that I be included in any meeting that takes place in any sort of official capacity that involves plans for the band or any changes or additions to the income stream."

"So this could be either good or bad?" Matt asked.

"Or completely neutral," she said. She looked at Nerdly and smiled. "Hey, Bill," she said. "You're being kind of quiet."

Nerdly blushed a little. "It's been kind of a trying day," he said.

"I understand it's been kind of a trying few weeks," Pauline said. Jake and Matt had both complained endlessly to her about Nerdly's over-anal perfectionism. Likewise, Nerdly had complained quite extensively to her about Jake and Matt's lack of pride in their product. "You'll get through it. The important thing is to work together and stay focused, right?"

"Right," he mumbled.

"Are you going to introduce me to your friend?" Pauline asked him, obviously with the intent of teasing him. Ever since they were children, Nerdly had had a romantic crush on Pauline.

"Uh... sure," he said. He made the introductions. Pauline and Sharon shook hands and exchanged nice-to-meet-you's. Pauline kept any further teasing to a minimum in light of the obvious tension between the three musicians.

They made their way out of the cavernous recording studio and to the elevators, riding up to the top floor where Doolittle's office was located. They arrived five minutes early but Doolittle did not make them wait as he would have with anyone else. They were ushered into his spacious office with the view of Hollywood Boulevard and given seats in the plush chairs before his desk. Doolittle and Crow were both present.

Doolittle offered both refreshments and cocaine to them, as usual. As usual, they all declined the offer. He simply nodded and called the meeting to order.

"I'm sorry that Coop and Charlie couldn't make it," Doolittle said. "I trust you will fill them in on the details of what is discussed here?"

"Of course," Pauline said. "As soon as I know what those details are. So how about we skip over any further preliminaries and get right to the point. Why did you call us in here on less than an hour's notice?"

"It's nothing negative," Doolittle said reassuringly. "We've got a new project for the band in mind to fill in some time and increase our international revenue stream once the live album is complete and in production."

"A new project?" Jake asked. "What kind of new project? Are you saying you don't want us to start work on a new studio album?"

"Not just yet," Doolittle said. "You see, sales of It's In The Book are still quite healthy and are not showing any signs of slacking off in the next two quarters. Once we release In Action, we'll be enjoying a fresh onslaught of album sales and radio airplay from that. It would not behoove any of us to throw another album out into the mix just yet. Sure, it would undoubtedly sell multi-platinum � anything you boys put out at this point is guaranteed to sell at least three million copies � but your next studio album will sell so much more if it's not in competition with your other works. Strictly speaking, people aren't clamoring for new Intemperance material yet. They're still enjoying the old material."

"So what's the new project you're talking about?" Matt asked. "Let's get to the meat here, Doolittle. What do you want us to do?"

"It has to do with international sales of your albums," Doolittle said. "As you're aware, we released all of your albums in all markets we cover ever since the first one. You've done really well in Canada but sales of the early Intemperance recordings were marginal at best in Europe, Japan, and Australia. Your first three albums didn't even chart in any of those markets."

"They're selling like a motherfucker there now though," Matt said. As of the last marking period, both Balance Of Power and It's In The Book had each sold over two million copies in Europe and Australia and more than a million in Japan. In addition, all of the singles that had sold in the United States and Canada had been equally popular in the foreign market.

"Well... they're selling well, but not quite 'like a motherfucker', as you put it," Doolittle said. "We think that with a little promotion, we could sell many more copies of everything you've done in this market."

"What kind of promotion?" Jake asked.

"A tour," Crow said. "We going to have you guys hit the road on a full-fledged, European, Far East, and Oceania tour starting in mid-January and lasting through late April."

"The tour will be simultaneous with the release of In Action." Doolittle said. "It will be perfect timing. And as you swing through every geographic location and the media covers your impending arrival, our international contacts will work on increasing Intemperance airplay in each market. As airplay increases and as people fight and squabble over concert tickets, the album sales of everything you've put out will begin to pick up exponentially. These foreigners will buy In Action and It's In The Book first and then they'll start to buy your earlier albums to see what they've missed. It's a gold mine just waiting to be opened."

"What if we don't want to go out on another tour?" Nerdly asked. "We just got back a few months ago from a rather exhausting excursion throughout North America. I, for one, am not quite refreshed enough to undertake another such venture."

"You're contractually obligated to go out on tour whenever a new album is released," Doolittle told him. "I'm sorry you're not feeling refreshed, Bill, but this is something you're going to have to do."

"Whoa, hold on a second," Pauline said, holding up her hand.

"What?" Doolittle said.

Pauline went aggressively on the offensive. "I really hate it when you sit there and lie to my face, Doolittle," she said. "It's insulting on so many different levels. First, there's the lie itself. Second, there's the condescension toward me when you assume that I'm too dumb to catch you in your lie."

"What are you talking about, Pauline?" Doolittle asked innocently. "You know as well as I do that the Intemperance contract demands a tour with each new release. It's in black and white right there in that copy of the contract you carry in your little briefcase."

"Now wait a minute," Matt jumped in. "Before we start getting all hot and heavy into this argument, I'd just like to point out that I'm totally down with this tour. I like being on the road and I've already filled in all the states and cities on my fuck-map for the US and Canada."

"Matt," Jake said, driving an elbow into his side.

"What?" Matt asked. "What's the big fucking deal? I'm want to go score me some foreign pussy. Do we get to stop in Iceland? Can you imagine how cool it would be to get some Icelandic trim?"

"Matt," Pauline hissed, giving him an evil glare.

He finally got the clue. "Sorry," he said.

"I think Matt is right, Pauline," Doolittle said, doing exactly what Pauline had warned her band members he would do if they showed any sort of crack in the armor of unity. "Before you start accusing me of lying and telling me I have no right to force the boys out on tour, why don't we just see if they are willing to do it? Now it seems obvious that Bill here is a bit reluctant, but Matt seems to be showing the spirit. What do you think about this idea, Jake? Are you up for a little excursion around the globe to promote your music?"

"I'll withhold my opinion for now," Jake said. "I want to hear what Pauline has to say first."

"There's not really much she can say," Crow said. "Like Mr. Doolittle said, you are contractually obligated to tour whenever a new album is released. Failure to do so without just cause is grounds for breach of contract."

"And that's where you're talking out of your ass," Pauline said. "And not only that, you know you're talking out of your ass. Did you really think I wouldn't pick up on that?"

"Pick up on what?" asked Nerdly, who, for reasons of his own, didn't want to go traversing around the world playing in front of audiences night after night.

"Do you want to tell him, Doolittle?" Pauline asked.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Doolittle said huffily. "The way I read the contract, the issue is quite clear."

"The way I read it, it's quite clear as well," Pauline said. "Although the way I read it is the same way a judge and jury would read it too." She looked at Matt, Nerdly, and Jake. "The mandatory touring obligation clause only applies to the release of a new studio album. In Action is not a studio album. It falls under the umbrella of 'live albums or greatest hits re-releases'. The same reason that releasing In Action does not fulfill one of the contract periods makes it impossible for them to compel you to tour in order to promote it. And even if it did, the touring obligation clause is for North American tours only. They can't compel you to do an international tour under any circumstances."

It was obvious by looking at the faces of Doolittle and Crow that they knew this to be true.

"I suppose," offered Doolittle, "that one could make an argument � albeit a weak one � that the semantics of the contract could be interpreted in that way."

"It's black and white, Doolittle," Pauline insisted. "You can't make them do this tour and you damn well know it."

"So what are you saying here, Pauline?" Doolittle asked. "Are you saying the band will not tour? Pardon me for saying so, but that would be an asinine position to take. The amount of money we could all make from such a tour is considerable. Our foreign album sales could potentially increase by more than sixty percent over the next two quarters. At a minimum, our analysts predict at least a twenty-five percent increase. Think about that in terms of band royalties, which is where your primary source of income comes from. Are you really going to throw that away just so you could say you got one over on us on a contract point?"

"Yes," Nerdly said happily. "I think that's exactly what she's doing."

"No," Pauline corrected. "I never said the band would not go out on this tour. I'm just saying that you do not have the ability to compel them to undertake this tour under the current contract. If you want them to do this, a separate, foreign travel tour contract will need to be negotiated and signed beforehand."

Doolittle rolled his eyes upward. "Pauline," he said. "I understand you're trying to impress us all with your legal knowledge. I also understand that you lawyers all like to put things into writing. But is there any reason why the standard touring terms for North American tours can't just be carried over to this foreign touring contract? After all, our terms with the band in that regard are quite generous from an industry standard standpoint."

Pauline shook her head. "I don't have much experience setting up an overseas tour, Doolittle, but I'm not an idiot. North American tours are done primarily on the ground, are they not? The equipment is trucked from place to place in tractor-trailers and the personnel, including the band, are bussed. And even with the fairly low budget that Intemperance requires � since they don't use all the laser lights, pyrotechnics, and other glitter � they barely make a profit."

"The purpose of a tour is not to make profit," Doolittle said. "That's something that I've tried to make you understand all this time and you still don't get it. A tour is to promote album sales. That's where the profitability comes in."

"I understand that very well," Pauline said. "And album sales, while they do benefit the band, benefit National Records a lot more."

"We're a business," Crow said. "We're here to make profit."

"I understand that as well," Pauline said. "Where we're running into problems with this foreign tour concept, however, is that it will be much more expensive to carry out, won't it? We'll have to fly all of the band members and the roadies to each geographic location. You'll have to move all of the equipment by ship. You'll have to fly the people to England, ship all of the equipment there on a freighter, and then rent the busses and trucks to transport everything around once you're there. When the England portion of the tour is over, you'll have to fly all the people to the European mainland again, ship all the equipment again, and then rent a new set of trucks and busses to move it around there. And then, when it's time to move on to Japan, you'll have to do it all over again. All of that takes a lot of money. And then there is foreign taxes, visas for every member of the tour, customs charges, hotel rentals in places where the currency exchange is not in American favor. There's no way in hell a tour like this could do anything but operate in the red. And quite a bit in the red. Am I correct?"

"Well... I don't have exact figures in front of me, of course," Doolittle said. "But yes, it is a little more expensive to run a foreign tour then a domestic one, for all the reasons you mentioned. Once again, however, the purpose of the tour is not to make money. The profit comes from the increased album sales."

"And once again," Pauline said patiently, "I understand that. It is you who do not understand where I'm coming from, or at least you're pretending not to."

Doolittle sighed. "Suppose you tell me where you're coming from," he said.

"Under the current contract, the band pays for half of the tour costs for North American tours," Pauline said.

"Yes, we remember negotiating that point ad nauseam when we put together the contract," Doolittle said. "As I told you before, it's more than fair considering that most first time contract bands have to pay one hundred percent of the tour costs."

"Uh huh," Pauline said. "Don't even get me started on that one. My point, however, is that fifty percent of the tour costs for a foreign tour is considerably more money then fifty percent of the cost for a domestic tour. In return for putting up more money, the band will not be receiving any greater percentage of the increased album sales the tour will generate. In short, the advantage goes mainly to the record company in this deal."

"I suppose you could look at it that way," Doolittle said carefully, plainly not liking where this was going. "And how would you suggest we rectify the situation?"

"Easy," Pauline said. "You pay for the tour since it is you who will be benefiting the most from it."

Crow's eyes widened almost comically. "You want us to pay for one hundred percent of the tour costs?" he asked. "Are you high? You must be if you think we're going to take that proposal under any sort of consideration."

Pauline simply shrugged. "I haven't discussed this in length with my clients as of yet," she said. "After all, you did just spring this on us. I am quite sure, however, that they will demand considerable concessions if you want them to go out on this tour. Remember who is in the position of strength here, Doolittle. You cannot compel them to go out on tour for you in this situation. There is no reason for them to do your bidding if it's going to end up costing them short-term money. If you want them to do it, you'll have to make it worth their while."

"That's blackmail," Doolittle hissed angrily.

Pauline simply shrugged again. "When the circumstances are in your favor, you call it good negotiating. When it's in our favor, you call it blackmail. Refer to it however you want. None of us really give a damn. But think it over. We're going to end this meeting for tonight and get back together again on... oh, say Wednesday. By that time, we should have Charlie and Coop back with us and fully briefed in. In the meantime, I'll talk with the band and see just what it is they want out of this tour."

"You'll get no concessions from us," Crow said.

"Then my guess is you'll get no tour from us," Pauline told him. She pushed her chair back and stood up. She looked at Jake, Matt, and Nerdly, all of whom were looking at her in stunned respect. "Are you ready, guys?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "I think I am."

"Fuckin' A," said Matt. "Let's get out of here."

At five o'clock that evening Nerdly, Jake, and Matt emerged from one of the side doors of the National Records Building into the VIP parking lot. Matt and Jake each had backpacks stuffed with several days' worth of clothing, shaving gear, and other overnight accessories. They would be spending the night in Ventura and then flying to Bodega Bay � a small oceanfront town north of San Francisco � in Jake's plane the next morning.

Nerdly was empty handed as he was not going with them. Jake had invited him along back when the trip was in the planning stages, back before they'd even started fighting with each other over the overdub issue. Nerdly had politely declined, stating he didn't like torturing innocent fish (the main purpose of the trip was to do some deep sea fishing) and even if he did, he wasn't about to climb into a small, single-engine plane with a new pilot at the controls. As he left now, escorting Sharon out to his Geo Metro so they could make their dinner date (they were going out as "just friends"), he didn't even say goodbye.

"You think he's gonna get over this one?" Matt asked.

"I don't know," Jake said. "I've never seen him like this before."

"He'd better fuckin' mellow out before we hit the road," Matt said. "It's bad enough having to deal with freak-boy and all of his pathological fears about germs and viruses and tapeworms. I don't need to deal with a homicidal nerd on top of that."

A white Mercedes convertible pulled into the VIP parking lot from the guard booth. It circled around through the parked cars and headed for the yellow zone where Jake and Matt were standing. The top was down on the car and an attractive woman was behind the wheel. She had a head of blonde hair that was not natural but dyed so perfectly a casual observer wouldn't be able to tell. She wore a spaghetti strap top that did little to hide the cleavage of her considerable, obviously enhanced breasts. Her face was deceptively innocent looking. She waved as she saw the two musicians standing there, waiting for her.

"Right on time," Matt said, glancing at his watch. "You gotta like that in a bitch."

"I'll agree that's it's a favorable attribute," Jake said, unconsciously using a Nerdly-ism.

The woman driving the car was Kimberly Kowalski. That was the name her mother had given her, although only a select few knew her by that name. Most knew her by her "screen name" of Mary Ann Cummings. Ms. Cummings was perhaps the most famous and sought after pornographic movie actress in the industry. To date she had starred in more than twenty adult movies, including the critically acclaimed To Fill A Mockingbird, Blonde Faith, and Ball Street Blues. What set her apart from the rest of the adult film actresses of the day were her looks, which, despite the life she'd lived to get where she was, remained wholesome looking, sweet and innocent; and, perhaps more impressive, her amazing ability to portray an on-screen orgasm in a way that looked and sounded utterly realistic. Her facial contortions, moans of passion, pelvic thrusts, and leg quivering were so realistic looking that fans endlessly delighted themselves in speculating that she wasn't faking any of them, that all of her on-screen orgasms were, in fact, genuine explosions of sexual pleasure.

Matt had met Kim, as he called her, three weeks before at the Flamingo Club when both had happened to be there at the same time. Since then, they had been seeing each other on a regular basis � the first such relationship Matt had ever engaged in. Though he did not refer to her in conversation as his "girlfriend", it was quite obvious that he was taken with her in some way that was fundamentally different then all the other women he fucked and then threw away. They went out to dinner together several times a week, had gone fishing together twice, and she'd even spent the night at his house a few times � something that no other woman had ever done.

This was only the third time that Jake had met her in person and, like always, being in her presence and talking to her like she was a normal person was strange considering the fact that he had seen several of her feature films. He had watched her taking nine-inch penises into her mouth, vagina, and anus, had seen her engaging in smoking hot lesbian sex with up to three other women, and had witnessed her convincingly real orgasm scenes. He had even masturbated a few times while watching some of her more erotic depictions (his favorite was in To Fill A Mockingbird, when she'd engaged in a threesome with two actors who were supposed to be brother and sister in the movie).

"Hey, guys," she said brightly as she turned off the engine and stepped out of the Mercedes.

"Hey, baby," Matt said, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her body against his. They engaged in a semi-lustful tongue kiss that lasted the better part of fifteen seconds.

"Nice to see you too," she said, reaching down and giving his crotch a discrete squeeze. She turned to Jake and held out her arms to him.

"How are doing, Kim?" he asked her as he gave her a hug. He felt the press of her surgery-enhanced breasts pushing into his chest (breasts he'd not only seen bared on many occasions, but had once seen three guys spray their semen on in Ball Street Blues).

"I'm ready for some softball, some flying, and some fishing," she told him, kissing him wetly on the cheek (with lips that he'd once seen deep-throat Mark Snake � a man with a ten incher).

"Well you're in the right place then," Jake said, embarrassed to feel that his penis had started to fill with blood at the contact with her.

"Did you pack lightly?" Matt asked. "Remember, no more than twelve pounds of luggage per person."

She rolled her eyes. "That's totally barbaric to ask that of a woman," she said. "But, yes, I managed to keep it at eleven point nine pounds. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Jake said. "Having an overweight plane is just not a good idea."

"Do you wanna drive, Matt?" she asked, waving him toward the driver's door.

"Fuckin' A," he said. "Jake, looks like you're in the back."

"No problem," Jake said. "It'll do my ego good to be stuck in the back once in a while."

They stowed their bags in the trunk of the Mercedes and then climbed in, Jake in the back seat, Matt behind the wheel, Kim in the passenger seat. They pulled out onto Hollywood Boulevard and began fighting their way toward the freeway so they could begin the trip to Ventura, where Helen's softball team was engaging in their regional championship game at 6:30 that evening.

As soon as they hit the freeway, Matt pulled a fat joint from his cigarette pack and lit it up using the Mercedes' cigarette lighter. He took a tremendous hit and then passed it to Kim, who took an even bigger hit. She passed it back to Jake. He sucked up a lungful of the potent greenbud and then handed it back to Matt.

"So you're sure that your girlfriend won't mind having a porn star at her softball game?" Kim asked Jake.

"I'm sure," Jake assured her. "She said to bring you along. She doesn't give a shit what the media think about it."

"How many media people are going to be there?" asked Matt.

"Well, ever since that clusterfuck in Omaha, they've been on us like stink on shit," Jake said. "The game is actually going to be broadcast live on ESPN."

"No shit?" Matt asked, shaking his head. "A fuckin' women's softball championship in Ventura County, on ESPN?"

"They say it's to help promote regional women's sports," Jake said, taking another hit and feeling the drug go rushing blessedly to his brain.

Helen Brody, flight instructor, pilot, and amateur softball athlete, had suddenly found herself smack in the middle of her fifteen minutes of fame, or infamy if you prefer, after that "clusterfuck in Omaha", as Jake termed it. After spending the night together in a suite in the Ferriday Hotel, they had emerged the next morning into a full-blown media circus, with camera crews set up all over the lobby and dozens of Omaha reporters shouting questions at them about what their relationship was, how long they had been seeing each other, and, inevitably, how many times Jake had beaten her, whether or not she was a willing participant in the sexual activity, and whether or not Helen knew about Jake's past abuses of his girlfriends.

What they hadn't had to ask was who Helen even was. By the time Jake and Helen had emerged into the fray, all of the reporters knew everything about her, including her address and profession. They shouted questions about whether or not she was teaching Jake to fly, about whether she was passing him because he was sleeping with her.

"No comment," Jake whispered to her as he began dragging her through the lobby toward the entrance. "Don't say anything to them but 'no comment'."

He prayed that their limo would be waiting for them out there. Under the circumstances, Jake decided to forgo the formality of checking out. He would call the hotel from the airport where his new plane was being kept and have a little chat with the manager.

The limo was there and they made it safely away � or so they thought. What they didn't know was that the limo driver had already been approached by several reporters, handed a few twenty dollar bills, and had given up the location where he would be taking the couple that morning � Executive Airport in suburban Omaha. When they arrived there, another gaggle of reporters and were already waiting, cameras flashing, video machines filming.

"Why are you here at the airport, Jake?" one shouted. "Are you taking a flight somewhere?"

"Are you in Nebraska to complete your flight training because California refused to certify you?" asked another.

Jake had been forced to give an impromptu press conference to them just so he could get on with his business transaction. After shooing Helen into the safety of a hanger he had stood before them and told them that, yes, he was taking flight lessons, that yes, Helen was his instructor, and that his business in Omaha was to pick up an airplane he'd just purchased. Helen was along only because he was not yet certified to fly solo and she needed to be in the cockpit with him when he flew. They had stayed overnight in the Ferriday Hotel and had had separate rooms.

"We have information you both stayed in the same hotel room last night," one of the reporters asked after this statement. "Is that true?"

"How would you have come by information like that?" Jake asked.

"An anonymous hotel employee let it be known that the two of you ordered room service sent to your room last night and that Ms. Brody did not, in fact, sleep in her room."

"We had dinner in my room in order to avoid being in public down in the restaurant," Jake said. "Ms. Brody slept in her own room."

"Our sources tell us that she never returned to her room last night," another reporter said.

"Your sources were wrong," Jake said. "And that's the end of the discussion. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go check out my new plane."

He left them and went into the hanger, dozens of inflammatory questions following in his wake. Once inside, he found Helen and Bill Misterly, the insurance executive who was selling him the plane, watching a television set in the office. Jake and Helen were the top story of the morning. The news reports were repeating the allegations that had been leveled at Jake just a few minutes ago and were showing a picture of Helen � a picture she identified as having come from her purse, and which was now mysteriously missing.

"They went into my room, Jake!" she yelled, outraged at the invasion of privacy. "They went into my room and took things out of my purse! And now the picture of me and my dad is up on the television screen!"

Jake nodded apologetically. "Welcome to my life," he told her.

By the time they made it back to Ventura, every entertainment magazine, television show, and tabloid was splashing Helen's face, biography, and ever sordid thing she'd ever done across their medium. They had dug up and interviewed former students of the school who had not passed and printed their inflammatory accusations. It was suggested that Helen and her father were both in the business of offering pilot's licenses for sexual favors or money. They had dug up a retired FAA official who speculated that if, in fact, Jake and Helen had a sexual relationship going on while Jake was a student that it might constitute an ethics violation on Helen's part. He then opined that the FAA should probably open an investigation into Helen as an instructor and into Brody Flight School as an entity.

John Brody, Helen's father and the owner of the flight school, was infuriated on several different levels. He did not appreciate the fact that Jake and Helen were intimate with each other (they admitted to him that they'd slept together in Omaha). He most assuredly did not appreciate the vile slander that was being leveled against his previously well-respected business. His initial reaction was to try to kick Jake out of his school. The confrontation became borderline ugly when Jake refused to go.

"I signed a contract with you, John," Jake told him. "That contract states that you will provide all necessary training to me until I'm certified as a private pilot. I've already paid you the money for this. You can't just kick me out because the news is slandering you on my behalf. You have to have a reason to drop me from the school."

"Sleeping with my daughter is not a good enough reason?" he'd asked.

"No, it's not," Jake said. "I have to flunk out or prove myself unsafe in some way. If you try to kick me out for this, I'm afraid I'll be forced to get my lawyer involved and file a breach of contract suit."

"That's what you rich rock stars like to do, isn't it?" John asked. "Hide behind your high priced lawyers."

"Daddy," Helen said. "There's no need to be so dramatic. Jake is right. We can't kick him out for this."

"You're defending him?" John asked. "After what he did to you? After smearing your reputation all over the news? After smearing our school's reputation? After possibly getting an FAA investigation going on us?"

"Jake didn't do any of that, Daddy," she said. "And he didn't do anything to me that I didn't want done. I was the aggressive one. I practically raped him in that hotel room."

"I really don't need to hear about this," John said, shaking his head in disgust.

"I just wanted you to know that it wasn't Jake who put all this in motion. It was me. I didn't realize the consequences, true, but I'm the one who went after Jake."

"This might bankrupt us, hon," John warned. "After all the bad publicity we're getting from this, I think it's quite possible we'll never get another student."

"Do you really think things will be that bad?" Helen asked, seemingly near tears.

"No," Jake interrupted. "It won't be bad at all."

"What the hell do you know about it?" John asked venomously. "You're a multi-millionaire rock star. What do you know about running a business?"

"Not very much," Jake admitted. "But negative media attention is not exactly a stranger to me. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised with what sort of effect all of this will have on your business."

And, of course, Jake was right. Within two days of the first reports, there were literally hundreds of people calling Brody Flight School enquiring about flight lessons. So many people wanted to enroll that John had to develop a waiting list and hire two additional instructors. He also had to purchase a new plane in order to accommodate the increase. Jake managed to get back into his good grace by loaning him the twenty thousand dollar down payment on the aircraft and co-signing the loan for the rest.

"Are all these people signing up because they think they're going to be able to sleep with me?" Helen asked him at one point.

"No, that's not the reason at all," Jake said. "They're doing it because it's the same flight school where Jake Kingsley learned to fly, the same one that's been in the news. They'll be able to tell all their friends that they're going to Brody Flight School, that they actually learned from you, or your dad, or an instructor who knows you or your dad. They're doing it on the hope that they'll run into me out on the airfield some day. If I were your dad, I would raise my rates by at least twenty percent. People will pay it."

This was advice that John took and soon the money was rolling in like it never had before. John was still worried, however, about the possibility of an FAA investigation. Jake, in order to assuage that worry, had his "high-priced" lawyer look into the possibility. Pauline checked with some of her contacts and the information she got was exactly what Jake had suspected it would be.

"There is nothing specific in the regulations about sexual activity between a student and an instructor," Jake reported to him. "They could conceivably apply an ethics violation against the instructor but that would only be if they had convincing evidence that a sexual relationship existed between Helen and I � which they do not, since media speculation does not constitute evidence � and they were able to show that the sexual relationship was causing Helen to overlook faults in the student. Since that is not happening, they would not have a leg to stand on."

"Nevertheless," John said, "I think you two oughtta keep your hands off of each other. I don't think you should socialize outside of the classroom either."

"I'm not making any promises about that, Daddy," Helen told him.

John didn't like this, but he was forced to live with it.

Jake and Helen did continue to socialize with each other outside of the classroom. He took her out to dinner on a few occasions, to a Los Angeles Dodgers game one Friday night, and to a party at Matt's house. Everywhere they showed up, the media soon followed, dying to get a glimpse of Jake and Helen in some sort of compromising position. The public was fascinated with Helen for some reason Jake could not even begin to put his finger on. Not even Matt's newfound relationship with the famous porn star � something that should have been equally fascinating at least � could derail or mitigate this enthrallment. What they were looking for was some sort of proof of sexual involvement with Jake. Although their speculation of such a relationship was rampant, and though the circumstantial evidence from the Ferriday Hotel was somewhat suggestive, no one had ever been able to indisputably document Jake's penis in Helen's vagina. Nor had they been able to catch them spending the night together in the same room. Their experience at the Ferriday had taught them to be careful. Though they had slept together several times since Omaha, it was always at Jake's house or Helen's house and they always made sure to leave afterward.

For the most part, Helen remained good-natured and down to earth about her sudden celebrity status. She declined all interviews and answered every ambush attempt with a simple "no comment". She went about her normal, day-to-day business of teaching students how to fly, shopping for food, and going to practice and games for her softball league. Reporters followed her around endlessly, even going so far as to pose as normal spectators at the softball games, shoppers in the grocery stores, or prospective students looking into flight school. Their goal was to befriend her and get her to admit that sexual involvement was taking place. She generally spotted such lame attempts within the first few seconds and excused herself from the conversation. Even if she didn't key in that the friendly person she was talking to was actually a reporter, she did not admit anything to anyone.

All of that was pretty much irrelevant now, however. As of six days before, Jake was officially a licensed pilot. He had taken the written test and then gone up with an FAA certified evaluator in order to demonstrate his abilities. The flight had lasted almost two hours and the evaluator � a decrepit, steely-eyed man who looked like he might've once gone head-to-head with the Red Baron � put him through the paces with uncompromising rigidity. He had entered the cockpit with the pre-conceived notion that Jake had bribed and fucked his way through flight school. He was proven wrong. Jake performed every task with precision and passed every test thrown at him. The evaluator was impressed enough to shake Jake's hand after the final landing and apologize for assuming incompetence.

"No problem," Jake told him. "If you're actually sincere about this, however, why don't you go over and tell those assholes how well I did?" He pointed to the gaggle of reporters, photographers, and camera operators who had been tipped off by someone in the FAA bureaucracy that Jake would be taking his test flight today and had gathered in force � no doubt hoping to see Jake's airplane crash and burn, or, barring that, for him to break down in tears when he was failed.

The evaluator did just as Jake asked. He walked over and gave a small press conference, citing his credentials and experience and telling them that Jake Kingsley had performed every task asked of him extremely well and, in his opinion, was a fully qualified pilot. The group recorded everything said but none of them used the footage or the quotes in any way. They didn't want to print that Jake was a good pilot. Stories like that didn't sell newspapers or get people to tune into the news.

In any case, now that Jake was no longer a student, he and Helen were free to be caught in a compromising position since such a position was no longer compromising. This trip to Bodega Bay was not public knowledge yet, but it would be the moment that Jake filed his flight plan tomorrow and some clerk in the office leaked it to a reporter. It would take little effort for the press to check out the hotels in Bodega Bay and find that Jake and Helen were staying in one room while Matt and Kim were staying in another. Of course they didn't plan to actually admit anything when they were asked about it, but at least they didn't have to be as careful anymore.

The City of Ventura Softball Complex was located in the southern part of the small city. It covered more than three hundred acres of land and featured five different fields, all of which were professionally landscaped and equipped with lighting. The championship game between Helen's team, the Vixens, with a 12-3 record over the season, and their cross town rivals, the Dolphins, who were sporting a 13-2 record (although one of those losses was to the Vixens early in the season) was taking place on field number one. It wasn't hard to find that particular field. The bleacher seats were all packed to overfull and the parking lot was filled with media trucks. Camera crews had set up all around the field to record the action and the scorekeeping booth had been all but taken over by the ESPN play-by-play crew and their assistants.

"What a fuckin' zoo," Matt complained as they were forced to park in field three's parking lot, nearly a quarter mile away.

Fortunately, as friends of one of the players, they had three seats reserved for them just behind home plate. After claiming their seats they walked down near the home team dugout to say hello to Helen. Camera crews and reporters, noting their arrival, crowded around them, filming and snapping away.

Helen was out on the field, warming up for the game by tossing the softball around with three of her teammates. She was dressed in the standard uniform of white shorts, a maroon jersey with her last name and the number 18 on it, and a pair of cleats. She saw the commotion and trotted over to greet them.

"Hi, guys," she said, ignoring the cameras and reporters. "Glad you could come."

"It's nice to see you again, Helen," Kim said. "You look cute in your uniform."

"Thanks," she said. "You're looking cute too."

"What about me?" Matt asked. "No compliments for me?"

"You're adorable, Matt," she said. "Even if you did let a girl outdrink you."

Matt frowned in embarrassment. At the party Jake had taken Helen to at Matt's house, the two of them had gotten into a drinking contest. Helen had won it, remaining awake and coherent for nearly fifteen minutes after Matt passed out from overindulgence. "You caught me on a bad day," he said. "I had an empty stomach and I'd just gotten over a cold. We'll have a rematch one of these days."

"I'll be looking forward to it," Helen said. She turned her attention to Jake, offering him a flirty smile. "Did you find your seats okay?"

"Yep," Jake confirmed. "Right behind the plate. Are you gonna kick some ass out there?"

"You know it," she said. "I'd better get back out there. We're gonna start in about ten minutes."

"See you after the game," Jake said, giving her a little wave.

"Yep," she said brightly, trotting off onto the field, her sexy legs pumping, her large breasts bouncing, the ESPN cameras tracking her the whole way.

As soon as Jake and his companions turned back toward the stands, two reporters appeared from nowhere.

"Matt," one of them said. "What was that about a drinking contest? Have you actually socialized with Helen in the past?"

"Tell us about your relationship with Helen, Jake," another one demanded. "Do you still maintain there's nothing between you?"

Neither of them said anything. Not even 'no comment'. They went to the concession stand where, to their delight, they found that beer was for sale. Jake got the first round, paying for three twenty-four ounce cups of Miller Genuine Draft. They carried them back to their seats and settled in to watch the game.

Of course, it wasn't long before people began finding their way over to them. Most just wanted autographs or to take pictures of the famous trio. There were the others as well though. One man, who looked like a businessman dressed down for the evening, asked Kim if those orgasms on screen were really real.

"You've seen a lot of my movies, have you?" she asked him sweetly.

"Uh... well... I saw one once," he said, blushing. "It was at a friend's bachelor party."

"Did you like it?" she asked him.

"It was... you know... all right. I'm not really into that sort of thing... but... you know."

"Of course, hon," she said. "Well I'm here to tell you that I've never faked a genuine orgasm."

"Really?" he asked.

"Really," she confirmed.

He wandered off, pondering that information, not realizing until later that she hadn't actually answered his question at all.

Later, a mid-thirties woman wearing a smart pantsuit and a designer blouse, her hair done just right, approached and gave a steely glare at Kim.

"Something I can help you with?" Kim asked her.

"I was just curious," the woman said, "as to why you thought it the least bit appropriate that a woman such as yourself would show up at a family event such as this. Don't you have any propriety?"

Matt opened his mouth to say something but Kim dropped her hand to his leg, stopping him. She fielded the question personally.

"Are you just jealous of me?" she asked the woman.

"Jealous?" the woman asked incredulously. "Of you?"

"Yeah," Kim said. "After all, I get paid to have some guy stick his cock up my ass and you let your husband do it for free."

The woman was reduced to nonsensical mutterings like "well!" and "I never!". She stomped off and was not seen or heard from again.

Jake began to understand why Matt liked the porn star so much. She was basically a female version of himself.

Eventually things settled down a bit and they were able to enjoy the game. This was fortunate because it turned out to be a pretty good one. The Dolphins came out to an early lead in the second inning by driving in three runs on a series of singles. The streak � while damaging � was brought to an end by star shortstop Helen Brody, who did what the position called for and stopped two line drives short of the outfield. The first she hurled to second base for what turned out to be a double play. The second, she caught on the fly, snapping out her hand and nabbing it neatly from flight for the third out.

The Vixens came back with two runs in the third inning and then two more in the fifth, putting them up on top by one. Helen � who had come into the game with a .415 batting average � was involved in two of the runs, hitting an RBI in the third and being driven in herself in the fifth.

The Dolphins answered back with a two run homer in the top of the seventh and final inning, putting them back up by one. The Vixens took the field for their last at-bat and quickly grounded out twice in a row, making it look like things were pretty much wrapped up. This was not to be, however. Two of the Vixens hit back-to-back singles, putting them on first and third base respectively.

This brought Helen to the plate. She hit a long foul ball her first pitch, took two balls in a row for the next two, and then hit another foul ball for the fifth. The sixth pitch � which would have been an out if hit foul again � sailed over the plate and she hammered it down the first base line, just barely dropping it inside fair territory. It rolled all the way to the fence before the outfielder could get her hand on it. She threw it to the cut-off girl who hurled it toward home, but by then it was too late. Two runs had scored, ending the game with a score of 6-5, Vixens. They were now the regional women's softball champions.

The entire team, and most of their family and friends who had gathered to watch, caravanned over to the Riverview Bar and Grill in downtown Ventura for a celebration. Jake, Helen, Matt, and Kim went with them. Jake bought everyone in the house their first round of drinks. Matt bought everyone the second round. Kim, not to be outdone, bought the third. These gestures served to make them extremely popular with everyone in the bar � even if the feeling was only temporary. Though many people came up to chat with the celebrities in their midst, no one asked for an autograph and no one posed any inflammatory questions.

The exception to this was the reporters among them. Half a dozen or so had followed the group to the bar. After enjoying three free drinks courtesy of the celebrities they were stalking, they began to move in, hoping that the lips of their targets would be loosened by the beer. They weren't. When it became obvious to the members of the crowd that the reporters were annoying the foursome, they moved in and, using thinly veiled threats of violence, gradually convinced the reporters that this was not exactly a friendly environment for them. One by one, they left, although they didn't go far. They staked out the parking lot, waiting for their targets to leave so they could follow them.

The celebration of victory went on for almost two hours. Jake met every member of Helen's team and every friend of Helen's teammates. He shook hands, engaged in friendly conversation, and, to his surprise, actually found himself having a good time. Matt and Kim seemed to be having a good time as well, although no matter how many times Kim told people to call her by her given name, they still called her Mary Ann or Miss Cummings.

At one point, when the two women went off together to go to the ladies room (with a gaggle of hanger-ons trailing behind them), Jake and Matt made their way up to the bar to score another round of drinks.

"Did you tell Helen about the tour yet?" Matt asked.

"No," he said. "I was waiting for a better time. I'm not sure how she's gonna react."

"I thought you two were just booty call buds," Matt said. "Is it getting to be more then that?"

Jake shrugged. "I'm not sure how to define this relationship just yet," he admitted. "We each have our own lives that we lead independently of each other, but at the same time... well, we're starting to see each other a lot more too. And not just for sex."

"Yeah," Matt said. "I know where you're coming from."

"Oh?" Jake said. "Have you told Kim about the tour yet?"

"Not yet," he said. "I'll lay it on her tomorrow sometime. Maybe on the flight to Bodega."

"That would force me to tell Helen at the same time," Jake told him.

"I'll hold off if you want," Matt said. "Maybe it would be better to wait until after the trip anyway."

"No," Jake said, "I think you're right. We should tell them tomorrow. You know how women are. If we put it off until after the trip they'll be pissed off at us for waiting so long."

"Kind of interesting," Matt said.

"What's that?"

"That I'm worried about a woman getting pissed off at me. I mean, sure, I've pissed off lots of bitches in my time, but it was always easier just to get rid of them when that happened. This is the first time I've had to think about the aftermath of it."

"Maybe you're growing up," Jake suggested.

"Naw," Matt said, scoffing at the idea. "It just means I've finally found some premo puss and I don't want to stop fucking it yet."

To their surprise, both women took the news in stride when it was broken to them five thousand feet above the California central coast. Neither seemed particularly happy about it, but they shrugged it off.

"You're a touring musician," Helen said from her position in the front seat. "You have to go out on tour, don't you?"

"Yeah," said Kim, who was sitting in the cramped back seat next to Matt. "It sounds like a lot of fun, actually."

"How long will you be gone?" Helen asked.

"It's not certain that we're even going yet," Jake said. "National wants to play games on the touring contract and we told Pauline that we won't accept anything less than one hundred percent of the tour costs paid by them. They might just decide to scrap the whole thing."

"Do you really think so?" Helen asked.

"It's possible," Jake said, making a minute adjustment to their heading to compensate for the onshore wind, which seemed to be a little stronger then he'd been told in the weather report.

"How likely though?" Kim asked.

"They'll probably cave," Matt said. "It's like Jake is always saying, National goes with the option that makes them the most money. Even if they paid for every last aspect of this tour, they still stand to make a lot more then they're putting out in increased album sales revenue."

"So, more than likely, you're going?" Helen asked.

"Yeah," Jake said. "More than likely."

"And how long would you be gone if you went?" she asked.

"About four months," Jake said.

"That's not so bad," Helen said.

"No," agreed Kim. "Not bad at all."

They flew on and there was no more discussion about the upcoming tour. At 3:17 PM, just four minutes behind the ETA he'd filed in his flight plan, Jake brought them in for a neat landing at Bodega Bay's single airport.

"You must've had a great teacher," Helen said proudly as he turned onto the taxiway and headed for the small general aviation terminal.

"She was all right," Jake said with a shrug. "She had good material to work with."

There was no limousine service in Bodega Bay � which boasted a population of less than a thousand � nor was there any taxi service. There was a rental car service at the airport, however, and Jake had reserved them a Ford Taurus, the best vehicle available in their fleet.

They piled in and drove to The Tides Hotel, which was reputed to be the finest in town. There they ran into a small group of reporters and photographers, eager to snap pictures and shout questions at the foursome as they entered the hotel.

"Will you and Helen be staying in the same room, Jake?"

"What are your plans here in Bodega Bay? Are you going fishing?

"What about the rumors that the four of you are swingers? Any truth to that?"

They no commented their way into the lobby and checked in. Jake, as host of the trip, paid for the two adjoining suites with his credit card. They were given the keys and they went upstairs.

The suites were not the most elaborate they had ever been in, but they weren't bad. They had sitting rooms, large showers, and even hot tubs. The view was impressive enough. The front windows looked out over the harbor and all of the fishing boats at anchor there.

"Are they going to break into our room again and take stuff out of my purse?" Helen asked as they unpacked their clothing and put away their toiletries.

"No, I don't think we'll have to worry about that anymore," Jake said. "I'm pretty sure the word got around through whatever network these hotels use that there are consequences to invasion of privacy."

The consequences he was referring to had been rather severe for the Faraday Hotel chain. They had not gone unpunished for their lack of discretion during Jake and Helen's visit. Within days of the debacle that had kicked off the public's fascination with Helen, Pauline had managed to organize an official boycott of any Faraday Hotel anywhere in the world by any musical group signed with any of the three major American recording labels. Jake, in order to punctuate the point, had used his friendship with Celia Valdez to ask a favor of her fianc�, Greg Oldfellow. Greg was a prominent member of the Screen Actor's Guild and, with his support, the SAG had voted to similarly boycott the Faraday chain. No SAG member would patronize the establishment on either personal or business related trips. Because of these actions � which had been well-publicized as they were occurring � Ronald Dithers, the "anonymous hotel employee" had been discovered to be the source of the leak. He was fired from his job and the Omaha Police Department had actually opened an investigation into his actions, promising criminal charges would be filed if the evidence proved worthy of them.

"Yes, that was great, wasn't it?" Helen asked dreamily. "It made me feel powerful that all of that was done on my behalf."

"There are some perks to being famous," Jake said.

"It almost made the whole humiliating experience worthwhile."

"I suppose," Jake said. "Care for some wine?" A complimentary bottle of Sonoma County Chardonnay had been left chilling in an ice bucket for their pleasure.

"Hell yeah," she said with a smile. "Let's drink it right out of the bottle while we're in the hot tub."

Jake smiled. "I like the way you think."

They sat naked in the hot tub and drank the bottle of Chardonnay, passing it back and forth and swigging directly from the neck. When it was empty, they retired to the bedroom and enjoyed a forty-five minute session of steamy, no-holds-barred sex in which Helen demonstrated her squirting ability twice � once all over Jake's face and once all over his crotch. He did not wear a condom during the act and at its completion he ejaculated directly inside of her, taking her on her word that she was on the pill.

They drifted off to sleep afterward, napping for the better part of two hours. They then took a shower together and enjoyed another quickie under the hot spray. After dressing, Jake called Matt on the phone and they made plans for dinner. Not wanting to subject themselves to the public, they ordered room service sent up. In addition to the food, Jake had them send up three more bottles of Chardonnay for him and Helen and a bottle of Jack Daniels and a twelve pack of Coke for Matt and Kim.

They ate in Jake's room, gathering around the large dining room table. The food was decent, especially after they enjoyed an appetizer of potent greenbud. After dropping the dirty dishes into the hall, they stayed at the table, drinking and talking.

"All right," Helen said after about her eleventh glass of wine, "I've got to ask you this, Kim."

"What do you gotta ask?" Kim said, slurring badly. She was working on her ninth Jack and Coke and had just finished off the roach left over from the pre-dinner joint.

"I know people ask you this all the time," Helen said, "and you usually give them vuge... uh vag... uh..."

"Vague?" Jake provided.

Helen laughed drunkenly. "That's it!" she yelled. "Vague! They usually give you vague answers."

"You mean I usually give them vague answers?" Kim asked.

The two women cracked up, hugging each other for a moment. Jake and Matt were both kind of turned on when they saw their breasts push together during the gesture.

"Anyway," Helen said when they broke apart. "What I wanna know... and know truthfully, is... are those real orgasms you do, or are they fake?"

"The ones on screen?" Kim asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I saw that movie you did."

"Which one?" Kim asked.

"Bed, Butt, and Breakfast," Helen said.

"Oh yes," Kim said nostalgically. "I was almost nominated for an Oscar for that one, you know."

This caused another round of laughter, another hug, another accidental but highly arousing collision of the two women's large breasts.

"So give," Helen said. "Are you coming on screen, or not?"

"Sadly, not," Kim said. "I'm just a really good actress."

Helen was disillusioned. "Not even once?" she asked.

Kim shook her head. "Not even once," she confirmed. "Mattie, tell 'em what I'm like when I really come."

"Quiet as a fuckin' mouse," Matt said. "She hardly makes a sound."

"Really?" Jake asked. He was a little disillusioned himself.

"Yep," Matt confirmed. "It kind of caught me off-guard the first time. After a while though, I kind of got to like it. Her pussy does this spasming thing when she's coming. I mean... well... all bitches do that to some degree, but with her... damn. It's like you're caught in some kind of machine."

"Wow," Jake said. He had assumed that Kim would be kind of loose in the vagina since her job was to take outrageously large penises inside of it.

"Did Jake ever tell you what I do when I come?" Helen asked, not wanting to be outdone.

Matt and Kim were immediately interested.

"No," Matt said. "What do you do?"

"Do tell," said Kim.

"Are you sure you want to tell them about that, Helen?" Jake asked.

"Hey, we're all friends here, right?" Helen said. She looked at the guitar player and the porn star. "I'm a squirter," she said.

"No fuckin' shit?" Matt yelled, excited.

Helen looked to Jake for confirmation of this phenomenon.

"No fuckin' shit," he confirmed. "Bigfoot really does exist."

"Wow," Kim said. "That's hot. How much comes out? I've done some fake squirting before in my earlier flicks, but that was just peeing. Is it really... like... you know..."

"It's... uh... vaginal secretions," Jake said, electing to go clinical on them. "I can tell by the smell and the taste."

"She squirted in your face?" Matt asked. "God-fucking-damn that's nasty. That's even better then snorting coke out of a bitch's ass crack."

"You ever thought about doing some porn, Helen?" Kim asked. "They'd pay top dollar for a hot chick with big, natural titties that can squirt on camera."

"No, I never thought about that," Helen said.

They talked on for the next hour about squirting and life in the porn industry and sex in general. Finally, at around eleven o'clock, Matt announced that they'd better get to bed since they had to get up in six hours in order to catch their chartered boat.

The two couples said their goodnights to each other (Helen and Kim shared another hug, this time actually grinding their breasts together and ending it with a kiss on the cheek). They went to their separate suites and closed the door that connected them.

Helen and Jake took off their clothes and fell naked into bed together. They turned toward each other and fucked quickly and forcefully, creating another large wet spot on the bedding. They then curled up for sleep, both on their sides facing the window, Jake cuddled up behind Helen.

"What's going to happen to us when you go out on tour?" Helen asked him quietly.

"I don't know," Jake said. "What do you think is going to happen to us?"

She didn't answer for a moment. Finally, she whispered, "I don't know either."

Palm Springs, California

November 11, 1988

5:24 PM

"Wow," Helen said as the limousine came to a stop in the circular driveway at 210 Jacinto View Drive. She was looking out the window at the huge house that towered above them. Even though the sun had just gone down, bringing an inky twilight to the desert city, she could see enough to be quite impressed.

"That is a big motherfuckin' domicile," Jake agreed, managing to combine a Nerdlyism with a Mattism and successfully pull it off.

The house in question was three stories tall and spread out over the better part of an acre of land. It stood out from its neighbors by virtue of the fact that it was considerably larger � not that the other houses were small � and it was of modern architecture instead of the classic Spanish or Southwestern architecture that was the norm in this neighborhood.

"It has to be close to ten thousand square feet," Helen said as the limo driver came around to her door to open it.

"Actually," Jake said, "it's ninety-two hundred square feet, not including the detached garage."

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"Greg is one of those guys who likes to give you the specs on everything he owns."

"Oh," she said. "I see."

Her door opened and she stepped out onto the stamped concrete of the drive. Jake stepped out right behind her, carrying a canvas shopping bag he'd kept separate from the rest of their baggage. Both were dressed nicely. Helen was wearing a black, sleeveless cocktail dress that showed off her bare back and a generous amount of her ample cleavage. Dark nylons covered her athletic legs and a pair of three hundred dollar heels adorned her feet. Jake was wearing a pair gray slacks, a white dress shirt, and a gray dinner jacket.

The driver closed the door and turned to them. "I hope you enjoyed the ride," he said to Jake. "After you make entry to Mr. Oldfellow's residence I will coordinate with the household help in order to deliver your luggage and your golf clubs to their proper places."

"Thanks, Tim," Jake said, calling him by the name he'd introduced himself as back at the airport. He pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his jacket pocket and handed it to him.

"And thank you, Mr. Kingsley," Tim said, making the bill disappear without even looking at it.

Jake and Helen walked up a small path and mounted the polished marble steps that led to the front door. The house belonged to Greg Oldfellow, Celia Valdez's fianc�. He had purchased the property thirteen months before for $1.2 million and had torn down the thirty-year-old house that occupied it. He had then spent another $1.8 million building the structure they now stood before. Construction was completed four weeks ago and Greg � who only planned to winter here � had moved in the week before. He had not yet held his official housewarming party but had invited Jake and "that girl you've been seeing" over for a weekend stay to check out the house and to play some golf at the country club it overlooked.

"I'm a little nervous about this, Jake," she whispered to him. "I mean, I'm about to meet Greg Oldfellow and Celia Valdez. This is kind of a new experience for me."

"They're just ordinary people," Jake said.

"Really?"

"No, not really," he said. "They're mega-rich superstars with egos even bigger than this house and they like to belittle anyone who doesn't have as much money as they do."

She looked at him, aghast.

"Just kidding," he said with a chuckle. "They're actually pretty down to earth people for celebrities, especially Celia. That's why I associate with them."

"You're an ass," she said, slapping at his shoulder. She did seem to feel better, however.

Jake rang the bell and an instant later the nine foot double doors swung open revealing a tall, middle-aged man dressed in a traditional butler's uniform. He bowed politely to them.

"Mr. Kingsley," he said. "Ms. Brody. Welcome to Oldfellow Manor. Mr. Oldfellow and Ms. Valdez are expecting you." He held his hand toward the entryway, inviting them to come in.

"Thank you," Jake said, allowing Helen to step inside first. He followed behind her. The entryway featured marble flooring and had several pieces of modern art hung on the wall. They followed the butler into a large, open area. Hallways led off in several directions and two spiral staircases led upward to a second floor overlook.

"Nice pad," Helen said with a whistle, her eyes taking in everything at once.

The butler led them through a set of oak doors into an entertainment room that was at least sixty feet by fifty. Here, the flooring was of meticulously polished hardwood. Modern leather furniture was arranged near a large screen television. A bar took up one portion of the room and a glittering chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling. Soft, classical music played from hidden speakers. Celia and Greg were sitting at the bar, both sipping from a drink.

"Mr. Kingsley and Ms. Brody have arrived, sir," the butler said formally.

Greg and Celia both stood. Greg was dressed in a pair of tan slacks and a navy blue dinner jacket with a tie. Celia wore a maroon cocktail dress that was considerably less revealing then Helen's but did manage to cling quite alluringly to her curvy figure.

"Thank you, Jim," Greg said to the butler. "Could you see to their luggage, please? I'm sure the driver is anxious to get back to other duties."

"Of course, sir," Jim the butler said. He gave another little bow and then disappeared through the door through which they'd entered.

Greg and Celia walked over to them, both smiling.

"Jake," Greg greeted, holding out his hand for a shake. "It's nice to see you again. How the hell have you been?"

"Livin' the dream," Jake said, shaking with him.

Celia came up next and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for coming out," she said. "I think we're going to have a great weekend."

"Me too," Jake agreed. He turned to Helen. "Greg, Celia, this is Helen Brody. I'm sure you've read all about her in your local celebrity news columns."

"Those rags," Celia said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling for a moment. "I hope you aren't letting all that publicity get to you, Helen."

"I try to just take things a day at a time," Helen said.

"That's the way to do it," Greg said, holding out his hand and shaking with Helen. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Thank you," Helen said. "It's nice to meet you as well."

Celia, who was a hugger, didn't just settle for a handshake. She put her arms around Helen and pulled her against her. Helen seemed a little surprised by the affection but quickly warmed to it, returning the hug.

"You've got yourself quite a handful with Jake here," Celia told her. "You know that, don't you?"

"That's something else I have to take one day at a time," she said.

Celia and Greg both laughed.

"I'm sorry we're late," Jake said. They were supposed to have arrived at five o'clock. "The flight took longer than expected."

"What's up with that?" Greg asked. "I thought when you flew your own plane you didn't have to worry about flight delays."

"Yeah," said Celia. "What happened, Helen? Was he absent the day you were teaching about how to calculate your ETA?"

"Oh, I calculated my ETA down to the minute," Jake said. "I came into Palm Springs airspace right on schedule at 4:16 PM. What I didn't know was that every Tom, Dick, and Harry would also be flying into the airport at exactly the same time. We had to circle in the landing pattern for almost twenty minutes while nine other planes landed in front of us."

"Hell, I could've told you that," Greg said. "Everyone knows not to try to fly into Palm Springs on a Friday afternoon."

"You could've told me that," Jake said, "but you didn't."

"You should've told the tower who you were," Greg said. "I bet if you would have let them know you were Jake Kingsley they would've bumped you up in the list. What's the point of being famous if you can't take advantage of it once in a while?"

Jake could tell that Helen was appalled by the suggestion that air traffic control could be influenced by one's status. "I guess it didn't occur to me," he said with a shrug. "Anyway, we're here. And I brought some wine for dinner. I didn't know what we were having so I brought a Napa Valley Merlot and a French Sauvignon Blanc. If we're having white meat, you might want to get the Blanc on some ice pretty soon."

"Carmen is preparing duck breast with a fig and port sauce," Greg said. "The Blanc will go perfect with that. Let's give you two a tour of the house. When we go through the kitchen you can drop it off with her."

"Sounds like a plan," Jake said. He reached into his bag. "I also brought these for you, Celia." He pulled out a CD copy and a VHS tape of In Action.

"Your live album," she said, taking it and looking at the cover. "I heard it was almost ready for release."

"You get it a week before anyone else," Jake said. "They've released a few copies to the radio stations but it won't be in stores until the eighteenth."

"I can't wait to watch the tape," she said. "I've never caught you guys in concert. I hear it's something to see."

"I'm not as fond of the video as I am of the album," Jake said. "The video lacks continuity. It's a hodgepodge of concerts instead of one continuous one. Some of the clips have Darren on the bass and some have Charlie. And in almost every song, we're wearing different clothes." He shrugged. "It's not bad though, and it did a decent job of capturing the basic essence of our shows."

"Any backstage shots?" Greg asked hopefully, earning him a playful punch on the shoulder by Celia.

"Some," Jake said with a chuckle. "But not the kind you're hoping for."

"Damn," Greg said.

They toured the house, Greg leading them through every nook and cranny of it. It took the better part of forty minutes to see everything and it was as opulent and decedent as Jake had suspected it would be. The kitchen was huge, large enough to provide meals for a medium sized hotel and with a pantry that could store enough food to survive for six months after a nuclear holocaust. There was a ballroom complete with discotheque lighting and a professional sound system. There was a movie room that resembled a small theater, complete with raised seating and a Dolby equipped projection system. There were five secondary bedrooms that each had their own bathrooms and Jacuzzi tubs. There were two master suites, each equipped with fireplaces, hot tubs, waterfalls, and views of the fifth fairway of the Mojave Springs Country Club. Since Celia would someday take up residence here, there was a library set up with all of her music collection and all of her musical instruments. The walls here were soundproofed so she could compose in solitude. Outside, was a huge swimming pool and hot tub combo. To run the house, Greg had hired three permanent servants. There was Tim the butler, Carmen the cook, and Vanna, the maid (a sensually attractive blonde of about twenty-two who wore a traditional maid's outfit). In addition to these three, there was Randolph, the forty-two year old retired Chicago police officer, who served as Greg's bodyguard and security specialist. He had his own office and bedroom in the mansion where he monitored the take from the sixteen cameras that covered virtually every square inch of the property (Randolph had been the one to push the button that admitted the limo through the wrought iron gates and onto the grounds).

"It's impressive," Jake said when the tour was finally complete. "I think I could live here if I had to."

"I've never seen anything like it," said Helen, whose lower middle-class upbringing had left her numbly awed by the display of wealth she found herself in the midst of.

"It'll do for a winter home," Greg said off-handedly, as if he was barely managing to tolerate it. "What I'm really looking forward to is building my summer home in Bar Harbor. I've started looking into the acquisition of property there but I haven't found anything that suits my needs just yet."

"Be diligent," Jake advised. "I'm sure the right piece of land will just jump out and grab you at some point."

"My thoughts exactly," Greg said, completely missing Jake's gentle sarcasm.

Celia caught it, though. She chuckled a little and shook her head in amusement.

Greg checked his watch � it was a top-of-the-line Rolex � and said, "We've got another twenty minutes until dinner. Anyone up for a pre-dinner cocktail?"

"Now you're talkin'," Jake replied.

They returned to the entertainment room and sat down on the leather couches, Jake and Helen on one, Greg and Celia on the other. Jim, the butler, appeared as if by magic and asked for their drink orders. Jake asked for a rum and coke. Helen requested a whiskey sour. Celia and Greg both requested "the usual".

"Very good," Jim said, heading to the bar where he began mixing.

"So, Jake," said Celia. "I know I'm putting you on the spot here, but you haven't told me what you thought of our new album yet."

Jake inwardly winced. He had hoped that this wouldn't come up. La Diferencia's latest album, Caress Of Warmth, had been released two weeks before. Sales had so far been dismal and the album's first single, a record company written tune called Kiss Me Goodbye, was not doing very well either. Radio stations were not giving the song much airplay and it had not even debuted on the Hot 100 list yet, something that every other La Diferencia single had done within two days of release. Celia had given Jake an advanced copy of the album about a month ago, handing it over with the disclaimer that she wasn't really proud of the contents.

"Well," Jake said, "I listened to the album a few times."

"And?" she asked.

"Well... what can I say?" he asked. "I try to be honest in all things relating to music. I didn't much care for it."

She nodded as if she'd been expecting this. "I didn't much care for it either," she admitted. "And it seems like the public feels the same way. We haven't even sold sixty thousand copies yet."

"I listened to it too," Helen said. "Your voice sounds as pretty as it always has."

"Thank you," Celia said, patting her leg. "My voice just couldn't carry this one though. Like I told Jake a few times before, our fans have grown up but our music hasn't."

"That's part of your problem," Jake said. "The biggest part is that your record company exerts too much control over your music. Those songs they wrote for you..." He shook his head in consternation. "They're just... I won't go so far as to use the word 'horrible', but they're pretty bad. It's almost like they're doing a parody of the earlier stuff they wrote for you that was successful."

Celia nodded again. "I was ashamed to sing most of them," she admitted. "Kiss Me Goodbye? Awful lyricism. Some of the campiest lines I've ever been given. Caress Of Warmth is almost as bad."

"I did like the lyrics of the three songs that were yours," Jake said. "You sang two of those to me that night we had our little jam session, remember?"

She giggled. "I remember some of that night," she said.

"Jam session?" Helen said, raising her eyebrows a tad.

"It was the night before the Grammy awards back in February," Celia told her. "Jake and I were both out on tour and they were flying us in to make an appearance at the ceremony. We ran into each other at DFW and I told Jake they were putting me up in some cheap hotel. He invited me to stay the night at his place instead. Elsa made us dinner and then we spent about three hours getting drunk and singing our unrecorded material to each other." She looked at Jake fondly. "God, I was so hungover at the awards the next day."

"Me too," Jake said. "I was afraid I was gonna throw up on the red carpet when I got out of the limo."

"You never told me about that, Jake," Helen said, her eyes probing a little into his.

Jake shrugged. "It never came up," he said.

"It's very fortunate that word of where Celia was that night never leaked out," said Greg, who was obviously not all that amused by the story either. "Can you imagine the stories that would've been circulating in those gossip rags?"

"We were careful," Jake said. "I got her over to my place like she was a spy slipping into an iron curtain country."

"You do have a very devious mind when you want to," Helen said.

"It's part of the siege mentality that goes with being a celebrity," Celia said. "I'm sure you're starting to get a taste of it, aren't you, Helen?"

"Yeah," she said. "Every time I go to work or out shopping there's some photographer or reporter trailing after me. It does get kind of old."

"The public has a right to know," Greg said bitterly. "That's their favorite line. I had too much to drink once out at a club and ended up throwing up in the parking lot. The next week there were pictures of me barfing in the American Watcher."

"At least they never caught you naked on a boat with Mindy Snow," Jake said.

"I saw those pictures," Celia said. "You guys weren't naked. You were wearing matching swim suits that looked like black lines."

They had a laugh over that, breaking the tension a little.

"So anyway," Celia said. "You're right, Jake. Two of the songs on the album are songs I sung for you that night. I'm sure you noticed they didn't quite sound the same."

"Yeah," Jake said. "The tempo was quite a bit faster on the album and there were an awful lot of synthesizers involved."

"They ruined the songs," Celia said. "And they're not even planning to release any of my originals as singles. They just used them as filler."

"What is with these record companies anyway?" Greg asked. "I've heard most of Celia's unrecorded songs and they are good, solid material that her fans would've loved. She could have had a blockbuster album if they just would've let her put those songs together and put them out there. Instead, they forced her to record a bunch of crappy, psuedo-dance tunes and they destroyed the integrity of the tunes she actually did write. Are they trying to sabotage her career? Is this deliberate?"

"No," Jake said, "it's not deliberate. They actually think they know what it is the music audience wants to hear and doesn't want to hear. The problem they're having is part of the problem this whole country is having."

"And what's that?" Greg asked.

"They've become too large," Jake said. "The people making the decisions are too far removed from the tastes of their target audience and too ingrained with corporate thinking to make decent decisions. You basically have a bunch of old, accountant types trying to produce music for the masses in order to make money. Since everyone loved Celia and La Diferencia on the first few albums, their corporate minds want to stick with the formula that made them so much money in the beginning. Music is not like selling shoes, however. You can't keep going back to the same well and putting out the same thing."

"And the guys who are writing these songs are just as much out of touch," Celia said. "They actually think they're composing masterpieces in there. You should've heard some of the stuff we rejected."

"As I told you before," Jake said. "You need to chart your own destiny. You have to find a way to get your own music out there, in the form you composed it in."

"Not under this contract," Celia said.

"When does your contract expire?" Helen asked.

"We have two more periods on it," Celia told her. "That means they can demand two more albums out of us."

"Or they can reject the albums each year," Jake said. "If they do that, they're not allowed to produce any other music for anyone else."

"Do you think they would do that?" Helen asked.

"It's possible," she said. "If this album doesn't sell enough, they might decide not to invest in the next one."

"And they'd just let you rot there, doing nothing?" Helen asked, appalled.

"Without a second thought," Jake said. "Isn't it great being a musician?"

Jim brought their drinks over, carrying them on a silver tray. He distributed them silently, doing an excellent job of pretending he hadn't just heard their entire conversation.

"You're going out on tour though, aren't you?" Jake asked Celia.

"Yep," she confirmed. "We've been rehearsing it for the past month. We're starting in Miami on December 12. We'll finish up in Los Angeles on April 15."

"So you won't see each other for five months?" Helen asked.

"Longer than that," Greg said. "I'm leaving at the end of the month for Alaska."

"Alaska?" Jake asked. "Why the hell would you want to go to Alaska in the winter?"

"My next picture is a science fiction piece that takes place on an ice and snow planet," he said. "The best place to film it is at some place called King Salmon, which is an old air force base on the coast."

"How long will you be gone?" Helen asked.

He shrugged. "Probably for the better part of four months. That's how long it will take to film the outside scenes. We'll come back to Hollywood to do all the inside work."

"Won't you guys miss each other?" Helen wanted to know.

"Well... sure," Celia said. "But it's part of the life we live. We've accepted the fact that our careers will pull us apart for months at a time out of any given year."

"And it's not like we won't talk or anything," Greg said. "Last time she was out on tour we talked on the phone at least three times a week."

"We even managed to get together every month or so when we both had time off," Celia said. "That's part of the advantage of being rich. You can always catch a flight and meet somewhere."

"Although it was usually me who was catching the flights," Greg said with a hint of gentle sourness, "since someone here doesn't like flying."

"Shut up," she said, slapping at his arm. "The less I fly, the less likely it is I'll die in a plane crash."

"That's why she made me drive here," Greg said.

"I'm with you on that one, Celia," Helen said. "I hate flying commercial. It scares the living shit out of me." She blushed. "Uh... excuse my language."

Everyone laughed dutifully at her potty-mouth.

"Are you worried about Jake going off on tour, Helen?" Celia asked her.

"A little," she admitted. "I'll miss him while he's gone. And... well, I'll worry about whether or not our relationship will last through it."

"Relationships can last through a music tour," Celia said. "Trust me on this one. As long as you both want it to last and put in the effort."

Jake looked down at the carpet as she said this. He was still not completely sure just how concrete his relationship with Helen actually was. He liked spending time with her, that was true enough, but would he be willing to forgo the temptations that would be sure to present themselves to him on every night of their foreign tour? Would he be able to say no to a hundred English, French, German, Belgian, Dutch, Japanese, Taiwanese, Australian, and New Zealand groupies who would be begging to fuck and suck him every night? That was something he didn't know. It was a subject that he and Helen had avoided discussing to any length since the tour had been announced.

"What's the status on your tour anyway, Jake?" Greg asked, thankfully (and probably deliberately) changing the subject. "Celia said you were negotiating with National on the terms of it?"

"Yes," Jake said. "Since it's a foreign tour and it's not in response to a release of new material, the terms of it fall outside of our contract."

"So you're in a position of strength then?" Greg asked.

"Exactly," Jake replied. "Pauline, our manager, stuck to her guns and got us a pretty sweet deal on this one. We just signed the touring contract a week ago."

"What kind of deal did you get?" Greg asked.

"It would sound like bragging if I told you," Jake said.

"Brag away," Greg replied. "I want to hear this."

"Well, okay," Jake said. "But remember, you asked. Basically, National is paying for everything. They assume one hundred percent of the tour costs, one hundred percent of the travel costs, and one hundred percent of the shipping costs."

"Wow," Celia said, visibly impressed. She was, after all, under a contract that forced the band to pay one hundred percent of the touring expenses.

"That's not even the part he likes to brag about," Helen said.

"There's more?" Celia asked.

"A little," Jake said casually. "All of our accommodations are to be in four star hotels and all of our travel between venues is to be by chartered aircraft."

"No sitting on the bus?" Celia said.

"The roadies and the rest of the crew will still have to ride the busses," Jake said, "but we should never see the inside of one the whole trip. We'll travel first class commercial between continents, on twin-engine prop planes between cities, and in limousines from the airports and hotels to the venues."

"Now that's the way to tour," Celia said. "At least for those who aren't afraid to fly. When and where do you kick off?"

"We're leaving January 15 for Auckland, New Zealand. They're gonna have us knock out the Oceania portion while it's summer there. The last date there is in Sydney, Australia. From there we'll fly to Japan and hang out in some resort until our equipment � which is traveling by ship � catches up with us. We'll do three night engagements at six different cities in Japan and two in Taiwan and then we'll fly to the French Riviera for a two-week vacation while we wait for the equipment to catch up again."

"Two weeks on the Riviera?" Celia said dreamily. "That'll be fun."

"I'm looking forward to it," Jake agreed. "I've never been out of North America before. And since we're doing mostly multiple night engagements, the pace will be a lot slower then normal. I'll actually have time to do some sightseeing."

"When will you be back home?" Celia asked.

"April 29 is the last date," Jake said. "That'll be in Amsterdam. Italy, Spain, and Portugal all declined to let us play in their countries because we're Satanists."

"Prudes," Celia said with a shake of the head.

Jake simply shrugged. "They don't want us there, we won't go there. Anyway, we should be back home again by May 1."

"Perfect," Celia said with a smile. Jake didn't know why she thought that was so perfect and she didn't explain herself. Not yet anyway.

They finished their drinks and then had another round. Just as they finished up with that one, Jim came in and announced that dinner was ready. The four of them moved to the formal dining room and took seats at one end of a polished mahogany table that could have seated twenty more people.

Jim served the white wine that Jake had brought and Carmen brought in the first course � a spinach salad with slivered almonds and a raspberry dressing. All in all, there were five courses to the meal. Jake found the food nothing short of delicious � particularly the duck breast main entr�e � but he felt that the portions were too small. After the dessert dishes were taken away he was still hungry. He wondered if he would be able to score a sandwich or something later on.

"Would anyone care for an after-dinner drink?" Jim asked them.

"All of us would," Greg said, before anyone else could answer. "Pour us each a snifter of that Normanden Mercier cognac."

"Yes, sir," Jim said, bowing politely.

"And bring it to us out on the deck," Greg added, getting another 'yes, sir' in return.

Greg led them out onto the second floor deck, which was constructed of redwood. A hot tub, a small bar, and some very expensive patio furniture sat out here. The night air was just on the right side of being called brisk. They gathered on the patio furniture around a table with an umbrella. Soon, Jim appeared with their cognac.

Helen had never had cognac before and wasn't quite sure what to do with it. Jake gave her the basic course.

"Hold the snifter in your hand and use your body heat to warm the cognac," he said. "That will allow the vapors to rise so you can inhale them with your nose."

"So we don't drink it?" she asked.

"Eventually you get to that," Jake told her with a smile. "After you've sniffed it and basked in the aroma, you take small sips of it."

"This is the best mass produced cognac in the world," Greg told her. "It's two hundred and twenty dollars a bottle, but well worth the cost."

Helen's mouth gaped a little when she heard how much it cost. When she finally tried a sip she judiciously did not mention that, to her, it tasted the same as the E&J Brandy she used to steal from her father's liquor cabinet when she was a teenager.

"We have some good news to share," Celia said. "We've finally set a date and a place for our wedding."

"You did?" Jake asked. Ever since becoming officially engaged they had been unable to set a date because of differing views about the prenuptial agreement Greg wanted her to sign.

"We did," Celia confirmed. "June 15^th. We're going to have the ceremony and the reception at a private resort on Martha's Vineyard."

"That's awesome," Jake said. "Congratulations."

"Yes, congratulations," Helen echoed. "And Martha's Vineyard. Wow. I've heard very nice things about that place."

"All of them true, I assure you," Greg said. "The resort rental itself is costing me sixty thousand dollars."

"Quite a chunk of change," Jake remarked.

Greg shrugged, as if to say it was nothing � which, to him, it was. "And we've also decided that we would like you to be there, Jake."

Jake was quite surprised. "Me? You want me to be there?"

"And a guest, of course," Greg said. "We would be honored to have Helen attend as well. Wouldn't we, Celia?"

"Absolutely," she said.

"I... I don't know what to say," Helen said, blindsided. She had just started to get comfortable with the fact that she was sitting in Greg Oldfellow's mansion, that she was attending a private dinner party with a famous actor and a famous musician, and now... now they were inviting her to their wedding.

"What about... you know... the clash of images that my presence would cause?" Jake asked. "Won't that create a problem for you?" He was referring to the fact that Celia and Greg were both considered squeaky clean, straight arrow, virginal do-gooders while Jake was considered the hard-partying, ass-crack sniffing, spawn of Satan. The media had no idea that Jake and Celia were even friends, mostly because such an idea seemed so ridiculous.

"We're willing to take the flack from that if you are," Celia said. "You're a very dear friend and both of us want you to be there on our most important day. Right, Greg?"

"I couldn't have put it better," Greg agreed.

"I'm not one to worry about my image," Jake said. "I think people make too much of such a thing myself. But I do want to make sure that you're not just doing this to be polite. If you'd rather that I don't accept your invitation, my feelings won't be hurt in the least."

"We're not doing this to be polite, Jake," Celia said. "Our invitation is sincere. We would be honored if you would be there with us."

Jake nodded. He wasn't quite sure about Greg � Greg was a hard person to read � but Celia seemed as sincere as she claimed. "In that case," he said, "I would be happy to attend. I'll make sure to keep that date on my calendar clear." He turned to Helen. "What about you, Helen? Can you keep June 15^th open?"

"Uh... sure, of course," she said, prudently not adding, assuming that we're still together in six months. That was, of course, a question that was still open to debate since the exact nature of their relationship had yet to be defined.

"It's settled then," Celia said with a little clap of her hands. "We'll send you the official invitation as soon as they go out. And there's one other thing I wanted to ask you, Jake."

"What's that?"

"Will you sing at the wedding?"

"You want me to sing?" he asked, raising his eyebrows a bit.

"And play your guitar," she said. "I'd love to have you strum something out and sing during the ceremony."

"Uh... well... what do you want me to sing?" he asked. "I'm sure you don't want me going up there and pounding out an unplugged version of Who Needs Love? or It's In The Book, do you?"

"Well... no, not exactly," Celia said with a giggle. "I was thinking something soft, gentle, romantic."

"I don't think I have any songs that fit that description," Jake said doubtfully.

"It doesn't have to be one of your songs," Celia told him. "You can sing something from another artist if you want. I was just thinking... you know... something that symbolizes love and commitment."

"I could get in a lot of trouble for singing another artist's song at a public ceremony," Jake said. "You know how our contracts are written. Technically I could even get in trouble for singing at all in a public place without National's permission."

Celia looked a little dejected. "You are right about that," she said. "I understand if you don't feel comfortable doing it."

"No no," Jake said. "I didn't say that. I just said I couldn't do another artist's tune. I could still sing something of my own. National might throw a bitch about it � they did that to me once when I sang for some of my co-workers when I was working at the restaurant while we were recording Descent Into Nothing � but we wield a little more power these days then we used to. I seriously doubt they would push the issue in any way."

"What could you sing if you can't sing another artist's work?" Greg asked. "No offense, Jake, but I don't think any of your current work is quite appropriate for what we have in mind here."

"Well then," Jake said, "I guess I'll just have to write you two a wedding song myself."

Greg simply nodded, as if he thought that was a pretty good idea. Celia, on the other hand, was very touched by the offer. As a fellow songwriter, she understood how personal of a gesture this entailed.

"You would do that for us?" she asked, almost tearfully.

"What are friends for?" Jake asked her.

After finishing up their cognac on the deck, the desert wind started to kick up a bit, turning the temperature from brisk to pretty damn cold. They retreated inside the house where Greg suggested they have a few more cocktails in the entertainment room.

"Before we do that," Celia said, "is it okay if we get out of these damn dressy clothes and into something a little more comfortable?"

"Something more comfortable?" Greg asked, a little taken aback by the suggestion � it was Greg, after all, who had specified in the invitation that dress would be semi-formal for dinner.

"Damn right," Celia said. "I, for one, am sick of this dress. It's tight around my boobs and it makes my skin itch. We're among friends here. How about we go throw on some jeans and T-shirts?"

"Uh... well... if everyone else would like to," Greg said, obviously not very hot about dressing down.

"What do you think, Helen?" Celia asked. "Ready to go full casual for the rest of the night?"

Helen wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Well... it would be nice to a little more comfortable." She had noticed Greg taking more than casual interest in the view of her cleavage on several occasions � which thrilled her on one level but made her a little leery on another.

"I gotta vote for the jeans too," Jake said, before he was asked. He just hated wearing dress clothes when it wasn't necessary.

Greg knew when he was outnumbered. "All right then," he said, giving in. "Let's go find some jeans."

They went upstairs to change. Jake got in a few good gropes of Helen's breasts when she pulled off her strapless bra to put on a regular one. She slapped his hand away, but not too forcefully. His touch was turning her on.

"Can I have just a little suck on one nipple?" he asked, giving her puppy-dog eyes.

"Jake," she said, exasperated, "they're waiting for us down there."

"Just one suck?" he repeated. "It'll tide me over until we hit the rack."

"Oh... I guess just one wouldn't hurt," she said.

She fed her left breast to him and he latched onto her erect nipple, tonguing it and suckling it. She didn't push him away. Before long his fingers were down the front of her panties, sliding between her very wet lips, and her hand was in his underwear, palpating his erection hotly. When he bent her over the bed and pulled her panties down to her knees, she raised her butt up to allow proper positioning.

Jake slid into her from behind and pounded her quickly and forcefully, holding onto her hips hard enough to leave red finger marks on her flesh. She came very quickly, not squirting on him, but juicing up enough that her secretions dripped onto the floor and saturated his testicles. He came right after, pulling her body tightly against his.

"I can't believe I just did that in Greg Oldfellow's guest suite," she panted as he disengaged from her. She looked down at herself and gasped. "Oh my God! I need to clean myself up!" She glared at Jake in a friendly, sexually semi-satisfied way. "You're an evil man, Jake. Do you know that?"

"That's what the papers all say," Jake said, pushing his own underwear to the floor.

Both of them went into the bathroom and hastily sponged off their nether regions with water from the sink. They dressed quickly in jeans, T-shirts, and tennis shoes and then headed back downstairs where Celia and Greg were waiting for them.

"Sorry we took so long," Jake said. "We... uh... had some trouble digging out the casual clothes."

Greg didn't bat an eye. "Understandable," he said. "I don't know how you managed to fit enough traveling clothes into two small suitcases."

Celia, on the other hand, gave them a knowing look and an amused smile. "I glad you managed to finally put things together," she said.

"Well... you know how it is," Helen said, blushing.

"Yes I do," Celia agreed. "Although I'd never admit it in public."

"Huh?" Greg said, looking at her in confusion.

"Never mind, Greg," Celia said. "How about we get Jim to get some drinks going?"

Jim brought them all tall, fairly potent drinks he'd constructed at the bar. As they sipped them and started to buzz a little from the evening's alcohol intake, the conversation became a little livelier as inhibitions were dropped.

"What's the deal with Matt and that porn star?" Celia asked Jake. "Is that for real?"

"It's for real," Jake replied. "It's the first time he's ever been in a relationship with a woman for more than three sexual encounters, so it has to be real."

"You'll excuse me for berating your friend, Jake," Greg said, "but I find it quite appalling that anyone would date a woman who has sex on film for the entertainment of the lower classes. It's just gauche."

"So you're saying," Celia said, "that it would be acceptable to you if she was having sex on film for the entertainment of the middle and upper classes?"

Greg gave her a look that was part amused, part irritated, and part exasperation. "You know what I mean, Celia," he said. "Having graphic sex on film is quite uncouth. I can only imagine the personality of a woman who is willing to do such a thing."

"Actually," said Helen, "that was kind of the way I felt at first. And then I met Kim in person, and..."

"Who is Kim?" Greg asked.

Helen giggled a little. "Kim is Mary Ann Cummings' real name. Kim Kowalski."

"Ahh, a Polish woman," Greg said, his tone implying that that explained everything.

"Yes... well, anyway," Helen continued. "She really is a very nice girl. She's smart, funny, and she knows how to stand up for herself."

"Are those orgasms she does on camera real?" Celia asked.

Greg looked at her with wide eyes. "Celia," he said, shocked. "Don't tell me you've actually seen one of those vulgar productions!"

Celia blushed. "Well... I might've caught a glimpse of one once when I was walking through a room out on tour," she said.

Jake and Helen laughed. Greg simply shook his head in consternation.

"She assures us that the on-screen orgasms are one hundred percent fake," Jake said.

"She's a pretty good actress then," Celia said. "The... uh... one that I saw fooled me."

"Please," said Greg, rolling his eyes. "Do not insult my profession by referring to a porn star as an actress. That would be like calling Weird Al Yankovich a musician."

"Oooh," said Celia. "I have to say that that's a good analogy, Greg."

"I think Kiss would've been a better analogy," Jake said. "At least Weird Al is slightly entertaining."

"Doesn't Matt have a problem with the fact that his girlfriend is having sex with other men while she's dating him?" Celia asked. "Men with... you know... bigger equipment than his?"

"It doesn't seem to bother him," Jake said.

"Besides, he's still having sex with other women," Helen said.

"He is?" Greg asked, aghast.

"Matt is Matt," Jake said. "Fidelity, to him, is some vague notion he heard about once on a television show. In a way, Kim is the perfect girl for him. She's nice, but she can be just as crude and vulgar as Matt. They kind of compliment each other."

"So you think he's growing up a little?" Celia asked.

Jake shook his head. "Not really," he said. "He still likes to live his life on the edge. He drinks like a fish, snorts coke like Al Pacino in Scarface, and smokes about an eighth of greenbud every day he's not working. He drives like a maniac. I got in his Maserati with him a couple of weeks ago and he scared the living shit out of me."

"What did he do?" Celia asked.

"We were driving from his house to San Diego to go check out a new night club he'd heard about," Jake said. "We were on I-5, on that stretch between San Clemente and Oceanside. You know where I'm talking about?"

Helen and Celia both nodded. Greg shrugged. He didn't do much driving.

"So anyway, it's pretty empty out there since there's nothing but the marine base. All of a sudden, he asks me how fast my plane flies. So I tell him that the cruising speed is one hundred and twenty knots. He asks me to convert that to some fucking system of measurement that he understands, so I tell him it's roughly about a hundred and forty miles per hour.

"'Yes, ' he says, 'but how fuckin' fast can it go when you're going balls out?' And I tell him that the maximum, never exceed speed of my aircraft is one hundred and sixty knots, or, in terms that he can understand, about one hundred and eighty miles per hour.

"He scoffs at me and says that that ain't shit, that his fucking car can go faster than that. That's where I made my big mistake. I told him there was no fucking way his car went faster then my plane."

"Uh oh," Celia said.

"Uh oh is right," Jake said. "He just gives me this weird smile, reaches back and pulls his third beer of the trip out of the ice chest, and says, 'watch this'. He put the pedal down and that engine started to scream. We'd already been going about ninety, which is Matt's usual freeway cruising speed, and that speedometer shot up over a hundred and twenty in a matter of a few seconds. Before I even had time to get properly terrified, he pegged it out at a hundred and eighty-five."

"Jesus Christ," Greg said. "He's a lunatic."

"You could say that," Jake said. "I've never gone that fast in a ground vehicle before. It feels like you're going three hundred the way the engine is screaming and the scenery and the other cars are shooting by you. He kept up that speed for almost five minutes, just to show me that it wasn't a fluke, that his car could maintain that speed."

"You could've been killed, Jake," Celia said, alarmed.

"Yep," Jake agreed. "After that, I vowed not to get in that Maserati with him anymore. Hell, I don't get into any vehicle that's he's driving if I can help it."

"That sounds like a wise decision," Greg said. "The man is a menace."

"He's a menace all right," Jake said. "He's also quite possibly the best guitar player in the history of rock music."

"I will agree with you there," Celia said. "I loathe him as a person, and my brother still wants to kick his ass, but I have to respect his musical abilities."

This discussion led to another discussion in which both Jake's and Celia's musical abilities were praised as well. And this led to the suggestion by Greg that the two musicians put on a little performance for the enjoyment of the non-musicians in the crowd.

"A performance?" Celia asked.

"Sure," Greg encouraged. "Go get a couple of guitars out of the music room and play for us. I'm sure Helen would love to hear it as well as me."

They looked at Helen, who was nodding enthusiastically. "That would be great," she said. "I've never seen Jake in action before. And I'd love to hear Celia unplugged."

Jake and Celia looked at each other.

"What do you say?" Jake asked. "Do you have a couple of acoustics lying around?"

She smiled. "I think I could dig some up," she said.

She dashed upstairs and returned about five minutes later with two acoustic guitars in hand � a Brogan six-string and a Fender twelve-string. She held them both up by the neck. "Choose your weapon," she told Jake.

"How are you on the twelve-string?" Jake asked her. "I haven't played one in a few years."

"I do a lot of my compositions on the twelve-string," she told him.

"I'll take the Brogan then," he said.

"I was hoping you'd say that," she said, handing over the six-string. "You go first, Jake."

"Okay," he said. "What do you want to hear?"

"Point Of Futility," Helen said at once. "I just love that song."

"You realize it's a song about breaking up, don't you?" Jake asked her.

"Yes, of course," she said. "That's what I like about it. It's so sad, so melancholy."

"Well, all right then," Jake said, pulling a pick from a small pile Celia had set on the coffee table. He checked the tuning of the guitar � it was perfect, of course � and strummed a few times to get the feel of it. He then launched into the original version of his most popular ballad, the version he'd originally come up with shortly after breaking up with Michelle Borrows � future hypocritical magazine article writer. Helen, Greg, and Celia all stared at him with rapt attention as he sang and picked. He didn't miss a note. They applauded with sincerity when he finished.

"All right, my turn," Celia said. "What'll it be?"

"Let's hear Caribobo," Jake said. "I'd love to hear the strict acoustic version on the twelve-string."

"Caribobo it is then," she said. She strummed a few times and then started to pick out the opening melody. Her playing was beautiful and flawless, the twelve-string giving a rich, ringing tone to the chords that wasn't possible with a six-string. Her singing voice, however, was her crown jewel and always would be. The melodious contralto poured out of her mouth like a gentle rain, her Latin accent doing nothing but enhancing the sound as she sang about the most famous battle in Venezuelan history.

"That was incredible, Celia," Helen told her when the piece came to an end. "I must admit, I never bought one of your albums and I've only heard a few of your songs on the radio, but that was just... beautiful."

"Thank you, Helen," Celia said. "Of all the songs I managed to get recorded, that one is my favorite."

At Celia's request, Jake did the unplugged version of I've Found Myself Again, which she declared to be one of her favorite road songs. Helen then requested that Celia sing I Love To Dance, which was La Diferencia's first hit and their signature song. Though Dance had been composed by a group of Aristocrat Records songwriters and did not translate easily to an unaccompanied acoustic, Celia managed to pull it off.

"What next?" Jake asked when she was done.

"Can you guys do something other than your own material?" Greg asked.

"Greg!" Celia said. "I can't believe you asked that."

"No offense intended," Greg said, holding up his hand. "I love your music, both of you. It's just that I was thinking this could be maybe more like a traditional campfire kind of guitar singing. You guys should sing the classics."

"You know something, Greg, that's a good point," Jake said. "Maybe it is kind of arrogant of us to sing only our own material."

"You do know songs by other people, don't you?" he asked. "That's what I was asking. You physically know how to play them, right?"

"I can play almost anything that I've heard enough to know the lyrics to," Jake said.

"Me too," Celia said.

"Well let's hear something then," Greg said. "Jake, one of my favorite songs is Proud Mary. Can you do it?"

"Child's play," Jake scoffed. "And I mean that literally. I learned that one when I was about ten years old."

"Let's hear it then," Helen said. "I love that song too."

And so, Jake played Proud Mary, launching into it without even a warm-up strum first. He sang about leaving a good job in the city, working for The Man every night and day. As his fingers played the simple three chord progression, a wave of nostalgia swept over him. He remembered playing this song over and over again in his bedroom as a child, belting out the lyrics into a fake microphone he'd rigged up, pretending he was singing before an audience of thousands. How long had it been since he'd last done Proud Mary on his guitar? Ten years? Fifteen maybe?

"Bravo," Greg said when he was finished. "John Fogerty himself couldn't have done it better."

"That was great, Jake," Helen said. "Why haven't you ever serenaded me before tonight?"

"I've forgotten how fun it is to just play and sing," Jake said. "Celia's turn. Pick something for her, Helen."

"Okay," Helen said, looking at Celia thoughtfully. "This is one of my favorite songs. I don't know if it's something you can play on an acoustic though."

"What is it?" Celia asked.

"Barracuda, by Heart," Helen said.

Helen grinned. "You have good taste, hon," she said and picked up her guitar pick. "That's one of my favorites too." A moment later she began strumming out the twelve-string acoustic version of the main riff, her fingers flying over the fret board.

"Yeah," Jake said, tapping his fingers on his own guitar to the rhythm. "Sing it."

She sang it, her melodic voice and Latin accent doing more then justice to the tune. When she got to the part about how you're gonna burn, burn, burnnnn to the wick, she drew out the last burn perfectly and then hit a solid "Barracuda". It was enough to send chills down the spine.

She hit the second verse and then the chorus. Just as she belted out the next "Barracuda", she looked up at Jake. "Do the solo for me," she whispered. "I'll keep tempo."

"Right," Jake said, putting his hands in position.

She continued to strum the backing riff of the tune while Jake picked out a lightening fast, mostly improvised solo to the song. When it was over, he joined her in the main riff, adding the sound of his guitar to hers.

"Yeah," Helen said, smiling, bobbing her head. "This is awesome."

"And we're getting it for free," Greg agreed, obviously just as into the music.

They finished up Barracuda and Jake, without waiting for a request, immediately launched into the opening of Never Been Any Reason by Head East.

"You know this one, Celia?" he asked her.

"Yep," she said.

"Let's do a duet then," he said. "Pick up the backing guitar and the second vocals."

She grinned and put her pick to the strings. "I'm on it," she said.

Jake belted out the first part of the verse.

"Did you see any action? Did you make any friends? Would you like some affection, before I leave again?"

And Celia sang the second part.

"I've been walking behind you, since you've been able to see. There's never been any reason, for you to think about me."

When they got to the first chorus, they both sang in almost perfect unison.

"Save my life, I'm going down for the last time. Woman with the sweet lovin' better than a white line. Bring a good feelin' ain't had in such a long time. Save my life I'm going down for the last time."

When they got to the solo of the song, Jake, by unspoken understanding, kept up the rhythm while Celia formulated a solo. She picked out a perfect translation of the original Head East solo, her pick striking the strings, her left hand bending and manipulating them. They fell back into the dual rhythm guitar of the main riff and then alternated voices for the last verse. When they got to the final chorus, the both took their hands off their guitars and sang it A cappella, leaning into toward each other so their shoulders touched, their mouth less than a foot apart. When the chorus was over they launched back into the ending � which turned out to be a little rough since they had differing memories of how the song actually concluded.

Helen and Greg both broke out into actual applause when they were done.

"That was the most amazing thing I've ever seen," Helen said.

"Hear hear," Greg agreed. "It was like you two had rehearsed that."

"Nope," Jake said. "That was totally improvisational."

"We both just have a good ear for the classics."

"Do another one," Helen said. "Another duet."

"Well... all right," Celia said, giving a little strum of her strings. "How about this one, Jake? It's a little sappy, but I've always liked this song." She started to play the opening for We've Got Tonight, which had originally been a Bog Seger solo tune but had turned into a huge hit when Kenny Rogers and Sheena Easton had covered it about five years before.

"Though I would deny it to my death in a public setting," Jake said. "I do kind of like this one. Let's do it."

"Right on," Celia said. "You take the first and the rhythm?"

"You know it."

They did it, the performer's instinct in them compelling them to gaze lovingly into each other's eyes as they took turns singing the lyrics on the verses and singing in unison on the choruses. Neither of them noticed that Helen and Greg did not seem to particularly care for their interpretation of this tune.

"Not bad," Greg said when they were done.

"Yeah," Helen agreed, licking her lips nervously. "How about some more solo stuff though? Jake, can you do Stairway To Heaven?"

"Does The Pope shit in the woods?" Jake asked.

For the next hour and a half, the two musicians did what they did best. They sang everything from Frank Sinatra to Fleetwood Mac to Rush to Slayer to Firefall. They even threw in a little Eurythmics and Cutting Crew � two of the few eighties bands they didn't consider to be complete atrocities.

Jake and Celia were having such a good time that they didn't notice their violation of the primary rule of show business. They didn't stop while their audience still wanted more. By sixty minutes into the performance, both Helen and Greg had had their fill of music and were ready to head up to bed. It was only after Jake and Celia covered Supertramp's Goodbye Stranger � another duet of sorts � that Greg decided it was time to speak up.

"Great music, guys," he said, standing up and stretching. "But we do have a nine o'clock tee time in the morning. We really should be getting to bed."

Jake looked up at the clock, surprised to see it was well after eleven o'clock. "Oh... yeah, I guess we'd better," he said. "My fingers are starting to get a little sore anyway."

"Mine too," Celia said. "My throat too."

They said their goodnights to each other. Celia gave Jake a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and then did the same to Helen. Greg stuck with shaking hands with Jake although he did not squirm away when Helen gave him a hug.

They went to their respective bedrooms, leaving the guitars (at Greg's insistence) for the "staff" to pick up in the morning. Jake and Helen enjoyed a slow, lustful session of sexual congress atop the silk sheets of the guest suite bed and then climbed under them to settle in for sleep.

"You and Celia were unbelievable, Jake," Helen whispered to him. "I've never seen anything like that before."

"It was fun," Jake said. "It's been awhile since I've just sang for the sheer enjoyment of it."

"You two seem to have some sort of... well... connection. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah," he said. "I guess I do. She's a great musician. It's a joy to play with her."

"Have you ever thought about doing an album with her?" Helen asked.

"No... not really," Jake said. "I'm not sure how the public would take a collaboration between the pop queen and the raunch king. Besides, we're both under contract for different record companies. There's no way in hell that either one of them would allow it."

"I suppose," Helen said. She yawned and curled up into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

Soon, they were both asleep. They slept soundly until seven the next morning, when a discreet knock on their door by Jim brought them awake. It was time to start a new day.

The temperature was sixty-eight degrees the next morning, with a light breeze out of the south. It was perfect for golf. In addition, the Mojave Springs Country Club � of which Greg was a prominent member � was one of the nicest, best maintained courses that Jake had ever had the privilege of playing.

"It better be," Greg said when Jake mentioned this to him on the second hole. "I'm paying nineteen thousand a year to be a premier member here. That's not to mention the six hundred a month I have to spend at the clubhouse or the bar."

"Quit bitching about it," Celia said. She was looking incredibly cute in her white golf shorts and tan polo shirt. "You pay almost nineteen grand a year for haircuts, don't you?"

Greg seemed amused by her mention of this. "You exaggerate," he replied. "I spend ten thousand a year, tops, for personal grooming."

Greg and Jake both agreed to a two thousand dollar Nassau with an automatic press clause. Since Greg was shooting scratch golf these days and Jake was still holding onto his twelve handicap, Greg agreed to give him ten strokes for the match. It was just enough for Jake to rise to the occasion. He beat Greg by two holes on the front, one hole on the back, and three for the entire eighteen, netting a six thousand dollar payoff when they settled up in the clubhouse.

Greg wrote out a check without saying much. He was not in the best of moods. He had refused to bet with Helen in any way since she was a woman, since she was playing from the men's tees, and since he didn't consider it sporting to take advantage of the fair sex. Helen had beaten him scratch, shooting a sixty-nine to Greg's seventy-three.

They returned to Greg's house after the match, their plans to enjoy another five course meal and then drive to a private club for drinks and dancing. As soon as they walked in the door, however, Jim was standing there, looking serious and forlorn.

"What's the matter, Jim?" Greg asked.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Jim said, "but a Ms. Kingsley, Mr. Kingsley's sister, has called and requested that Mr. Kingsley contact her immediately. Apparently there is something of some importance she needs to discuss with him."

"Oh shit," Jake said. "What now?" He looked at Greg. "Is it okay if I make a long distance call on your phone?"

"Of course," Greg said. "You can use this one here or you can use the extension in my office if you require privacy."

"I'll just use this one," he said. "Might as well get it over with."

He walked over and picked up the phone. It was one of the new, cordless models. He dialed Pauline's personal line from memory. It rang twice before she picked it up.

"Jake?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "What's up?"

"We got trouble," she said.

"That phrase again," Jake said, shaking his head.

"What's that?" Pauline asked.

"Never mind," he said. "Go ahead and give it to me. What kind of shit's going down now?"

"It's Matt," she said. "He's in jail. Kim is too."

"Jail?" Jake asked. "What the hell for?"

"It's pretty serious, Jake. He doesn't seem to grasp it just yet, but they're in a lot of trouble this time."

"What happened?" Helen asked when Jake finally hung up the phone. She, Greg, and Celia had all heard enough of his end of the conversation to gleam that Matt was in jail and in a lot of trouble.

"Pauline doesn't know very much right now," Jake said. "There was apparently some sort of car chase that led to a melee at Matt's house in San Juan Capistrano. He's in the Orange County jail, charged with assault on a peace officer, resisting arrest, possession of cocaine, DUI, and a variety of vehicular related charges like reckless driving and evading a peace officer."

"Oh my God," Helen said, shaking her head.

"Kim was arrested too," Jake said. "She's charged with assaulting a peace officer and resisting arrest. She was able to post bail so she should be out in an hour or so. They're not giving Matt bail until he goes before a judge on Monday morning. He'll have to spend the weekend locked up."

"That's awful," Celia said. "Not very surprising, but awful."

"I trust he has a lawyer working on this," Greg said.

"I'm sure that National will set him up with one of the best defense attorneys available," Jake said. "They won't want this to affect the tour."

"Imagine," Greg said with horror. "Having to spend two days in a jail... with common criminals! How demeaning."

"Are you going to have to go back to LA tonight?" Celia asked.

"We can't," Jake said. "We were both drinking on the golf course so neither one of us can fly until tomorrow morning. Besides, there's not a lot we're going to be able to do tonight anyway."

"We'll have to leave in the morning, though?" Helen asked.

"Yeah," Jake said. "At first light." He turned to Celia and Greg. "Sorry, we won't be able to play golf tomorrow."

"Understandable," Celia said.

"Though it is a pity," Greg added. "I was planning to win back my six grand."

Dinner that night was excellent, but somewhat subdued. Afterward, they had a few after-dinner drinks out on the deck. Greg produced Cuban cigars for Jake and himself. When they lit up, Celia suggested that she and Helen go back inside and drink a little more wine while the boys did their male bonding thing.

"I like the way you think, Celia," Helen agreed. She gave Jake a quick kiss on the cheek, wrinkled her nose at the cigar smell, and followed Celia into the house.

Jake and Greg talked of inconsequential things for a few minutes. They discussed Matt's troubles and the past legal scrapes that the members of the band had been involved in. Greg was particularly shocked about the incident in Texarkana, Texas on their first tour.

"They beat him with a telephone book?" he asked, eyes wide.

"They put a football helmet on him first," Jake said. "That way when they whopped the shit out of his head with the phone book, it didn't leave a mark."

"And he didn't sue for police brutality?" Greg asked.

"I think he was happy enough just to be out of there," Jake said. "I know I was."

"That's reprehensible," Greg said, shaking his head at the injustice of it all.

"That's law enforcement in Texas," Jake said. "He's lucky they didn't bury him in a landfill somewhere."

Eventually, the subject came around to the upcoming wedding.

"We're both very happy that you accepted our invitation to the wedding, Jake," Greg told him. "And your offer to write a song especially for the occasion... well, Celia explained to me just how personal of a gesture that is. I thank you for that."

"You might want to wait until after you hear the song to thank me," Jake said with a chuckle.

"It's a pity you couldn't use that Head East song you and Celia did last night. I would think it would make a perfect song for a new bride."

"Huh?" Jake said, confused. "There's Never Been Any Reason? How would that make a perfect song for a bride?"

"It contains the line, 'I'm going down for the last time', does it not?" Greg asked with a slight grin.

It took a moment for Jake to realize that Greg had made a joke. And, once analyzed, it was a pretty good one too. Jake started to laugh. "Holy shit, Greg," he said. "There is a sense of humor in there, isn't there?"

Greg was laughing too. "Once in a while," he said. "Every once in a while."

"Seriously though," Jake said. "Now that Celia and Helen aren't around, I just want to make sure that you don't mind my presence at your wedding. I don't want to damage your image. If you're just inviting me to keep Celia happy, please let me know."

"No, not at all," Greg said. "My image will survive your presence at my wedding. It might even be enhanced by it."

"Enhanced by it?"

"Absolutely," Greg said. "My official persona is that I'm a bit of an introvert, a boring yet intelligent man who rises reluctantly but efficiently to the occasion when the situation warrants it. It's a mold that keeps me locked into certain kinds of roles. It's a mold that is already well on its way to condemning me to the status of a character actor for life. I don't want to be stuck playing just one particular type of character my entire career. I want to be the villain sometime. I want to be the lady's man sometime. I want to be the natural born leader who knows how to get things done. Do you see what I mean?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "Actually I do. I'm typecast as the hard rock singer of Intemperance, the partying, ass-crack sniffing degenerate. Any music I produce right now is expected to fall into that genre. In truth, I'm getting a little tired of the hard rock. I'd like to put out some tunes that are a little mellower, a little bluesier."

"You do understand," Greg said. "So maybe this 'coming out' that we'll be doing will help enhance your career as it helps mine."

"You think that having me show up at your wedding will help with that?" Jake asked.

"Absolutely," he said. "It'll show the world that Celia and I have dangerous friends, that we're able to hang out with and gain the friendship of the infamous Jake Kingsley. For you, it'll show that you're able to relate to the more simple and refined Celia Valdez and Greg Oldfellow. I'm actually looking forward to what the tabloids will have to say once they find out you're on the guest list and will be singing at the event."

"It should be interesting," Jake agreed.

They puffed their cigars thoughtfully, watching as one of the security trucks made its nightly rounds down the cart path of the golf course. When it disappeared onto the seventh hole, Jake looked at Greg thoughtfully.

"So I take it," he said, "that you and Celia were able to come to an agreement on the wording of your prenup?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "Finally. I'm telling you, Jake, that whole issue damn near tore us apart. We almost called off the wedding a number of times. She simply would not capitulate on the basic fact that a prenuptial agreement is necessary. She wouldn't negotiate on the matter in any way. Her position was that there would be no prenup or there would be no wedding."

"Apparently she feels very strongly about it," Jake said.

"That's the understatement of the year," Greg said. "And if I thought that she was so insistent on the matter simply because she was trying to get her hands on my money, I would've just sent her down the road a long time ago, but I don't believe that's where she was coming from at all."

"No?"

"No," he said. "In a way, her views on the whole subject of prenuptial agreement are part of what makes her personality so dear to me. It's her sense of romanticism that makes her opposed to the agreement. She honestly thinks that marriage is forever and that signing an agreement on what happens if the marriage doesn't last is an affront to the honesty and integrity that should define a marriage."

Jake nodded, taking a thoughtful puff of his cigar, a sip of his cognac. "In principle, I tend to agree with her," he said. "As I said before, however, I'm a realist. If you were a firefighter, a cop, a teacher, even a doctor or a lawyer, I would simply tell you to get over yourself. But you're not any of those things and this is not a middle-class or even an upper-middle class marriage. It's a Hollywood wedding between two celebrities and such things have a pretty shitty success rate, don't they?"

"Indeed they do," Greg said. "I finally managed to get across to her that I wasn't disrespecting her by wanting the prenup, that I was simply making a logical, common sense decision to protect my assets. She finally saw things my way and agreed to sign the document."

"Did she negotiate the terms of it with you?" Jake asked, curious about the details of the agreement.

"Interestingly, no," Greg said. "The agreement I offered is quite standard and fair. All property and income that I possessed prior to the marriage remains mine and under my control. In the event of divorce, it remains mine. All of my income will be maintained separately during the marriage, although she will have access to it while we are married � with certain restrictions, of course. If we do divorce, she'll get none of my property and I'll get none of hers. She will be given two years worth of alimony based on a standard formula that is calculated on my income after the marriage and the lifestyle we live during the marriage. The disposition of any children and child support payments would be negotiated as part of the divorce settlement. All of that is pretty fair, isn't it?"

"It sounds reasonable to me," Jake admitted.

"She hardly even looked at the agreement," Greg said. "She simply picked it up and signed it. She gave me the silent treatment for two days after that and then she just reverted back to her old self and started making the wedding plans."

"I'm glad it all worked out," Jake said.

"As am I," Greg said. "Celia's a great catch. I would've hated to let her go over an issue as trivial as the protection of my assets."

After landing at Brannigan Airport in Ventura County on Sunday morning at 11:07 AM, Jake took Helen to her house in Ventura and then drove his car directly to Pauline's House in Los Angeles. Pauline was dressed casually when she answered the door, wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a button-up blouse. Her hair was combed but not styled. There was no make-up on her face and she wore no jewelry except a small pair of diamond earrings.

They went to Pauline's office overlooking the lake. Pauline pulled a couple of beers out of the refrigerator and gave one to Jake.

"So," Jake said. "What the hell did he do? Do you know the whole story yet?"

She nodded. "Yeah," she said. "He fucked up pretty big this time."

"Let's hear it," Jake said with a resigned sigh.

"Okay," Pauline said. "This is the sequence of events as Matt himself has explained them to me. It seems that he and Kim were in Matt's Maserati, coming back from the LA Coliseum."

"What were they doing there?" Jake asked.

"Watching a football game," she replied. "USC was playing Fresno State."

"Since when does Matt give a shit about football?" Jake asked.

"Since he started dating Kim Kowalski," Pauline said. "She's an alumna of Fresno State."

"Kim graduated from Fresno State?" Jake asked, amazed.

"Ain't that some shit?" Pauline said. "She was in the class of '83. She graduated with a Bachelor's in Performing Arts."

"Wow," Jake said. "So she actually did some of her earlier movies..."

"While she was still in school," Pauline confirmed. "The things you learn when one of your clients gets arrested. Anyway, they'd apparently consumed more then their share of twenty-four ounce beers and were quite intoxicated when they left the game."

"Nothing unusual about that," Jake said.

"Yeah," Pauline agreed with disapproval. All five of her clients, despite her repeated warnings, were in the habit of driving while intoxicated � sometimes grossly intoxicated. "So they made it safely all the way to the junction of Highway 73 and Interstate 5 just outside San Juan Capistrano. There, as Matt was merging onto I-5, at a speed of around ninety miles an hour, he shot past an Orange County Sheriff's deputy on routine patrol in a marked car. The deputy attempted to pull Matt over for excessive speed and Matt decided to make a run for it."

"Jesus Christ," Jake said. "What the hell did he do that for?"

"It was a classic Matt decision based on his basic personality and fueled by a .16 blood alcohol level. He said he wanted to see if he could get away."

Jake shook his head and gave a little eye roll. Yes, that was a classic Matt move all right.

"Matt got off the freeway at the next off-ramp and put on the speed," Pauline continued. "He began tearing through the streets of Laguna Niguel, Laguna Beach, Laguna Hills, and eventually, Mission Viejo. Soon he accumulated a following of no less than thirty patrol cars from Orange County Sheriff's department and the California Highway Patrol trying to take him down. He ran multiple stop signs and red lights. He tore through several residential neighborhoods at speeds over one hundred miles per hour. And, somewhere in Lake Forest, he lost them � or they lost him, depending on how you want to look at it."

"He lost them?" Jake said.

"Well, only in a matter of speaking," Pauline said. "He got away from the pursuit, but, at some point, they were able to get his license number. A gaggle of Orange County deputies showed up at his house within fifteen minutes. He wasn't there, of course, but they pounded on the door until Charles, his elderly butler, opened it for them. They demanded to know if Matt was in the house and when Charles said he wasn't, they asked if they could come in to look around and make sure.

"Charles let them in so they could confirm Matt was not in residence. Once inside, one of the deputies lifted up the cover on a little silver bowl on his coffee table..."

"Oh shit," Jake said. He knew what was in that little silver bowl.

"Exactly," Pauline said. "Inside was two grams of uncut cocaine. They looked inside another little silver bowl on the other side of the room and found a half an ounce of high-grade marijuana. This was enough to get the narcotics detectives involved in the case and to get them working on a search warrant for Matt's entire house."

"Jesus," Jake said. "How much shit did they find?" He knew that the supply in Matt's little silver bowls was just for convenience � his "courtesy bowls" he called them. The real stash was inside of his bedroom safe.

"I'll get to that," Pauline said. "For now, let's return to the present. While the police are waiting for their warrant so they can begin tearing his house apart in earnest, Matt returns home. He sees all the patrol cars parked in front of his house but he pulls into the driveway anyway, intending to give himself up and take the consequences for his drunken driving and running from the cops. It sounds like he thought they'd just shake his hand, congratulate him for beating them during the chase, and then take him down to the station where he would be booked and then released."

"He's deluded," Jake said.

"Yeah," Pauline agreed. "He is dangerously na�ve about certain things. I think it comes from growing up in the upper class. Anyway, the moment he steps out of the car, the cops are all pointing guns at him and ordering him to get down. He doesn't get down. He starts yelling at them, telling them that he kicked their fucking asses out there, that he was the best goddamn driver in the free motherfuckin' world. Kim gets in on the insults as well, saying that she'd tried to fuck a cop once but he couldn't get his dick hard so she had to use his nightstick."

"God," Jake said, rubbing his temples now.

"The cops moved in to handcuff both of them," Pauline said. "They elected to go the hard way. Matt broke one deputy's nose, blackened the eyes of two others, and gave another a concussion with a left cross to the temple. Kim kicked one cop in the balls and scratched another across the face bad enough that he needed stitches. Both of them were tackled down, kicked, punched, pepper sprayed, and struck numerous times with nightsticks before, during, and after handcuffing. Kim was taken directly to jail. Matt had to spend a little time in the Santa Ana Medical Center first. They also impounded his car.

"Shortly after the two of them were taken away, the cops' warrant came through. They went in and basically tore his house apart, looking in everything. They had a safecracker come in to blow torch his safe open. Inside, they found almost an ounce of cocaine and nearly a pound of marijuana. Now you and I know that this is just his stash. The sheer amount, however, is enough to qualify him for a possession for sale charge. That carries a significantly stiffer penalty than mere possession."

Jake sighed. "So what's he looking at?"

"He's looking at prison time for the drug charges," Pauline said. "Possession for sale of cocaine is pretty damn serious. Even on a first offense he could get five years for that, which translates into maybe two years before he's eligible for parole."

"Good God," Jake said. "Does he have a lawyer?"

She nodded. "I'm not qualified for criminal law and I told him that as soon as he called me. National set him up with Perceville Maywood, who is one of the most prominent defense attorneys in southern California."

"I've heard of him," Jake said. "Isn't he the one who defended Darlene Jacoby when she killed that chick?" Darlene Jacoby was a well-known television actress who had starred in numerous sitcoms and family oriented shows from the time she was eight years old until just two years before (she had, in fact, been the younger sister on The Slow Lane, the series Mindy Snow had starred in as a child and young adult). Shortly after her twenty-first birthday, Darlene was involved in a drunken driving accident on the Pacific Coast Highway in which her passenger, a member of her entourage, had been killed when she'd been ejected from the vehicle and slammed into a light pole. Darlene had ended up being convicted of simple drunk driving causing injury instead of the more serious charge of vehicular manslaughter because her lawyer had made a big deal of the fact that the fire department and the other emergency medical workers on the scene of the accident had not found the body of the young woman for nearly forty-five minutes after arrival because it was concealed by bushes. The argument had been that if the EMS workers had not been so incompetent at their jobs, they might've found her in time to save her life. The fact that Darlene Jacoby had not mentioned the fact that she'd had a passenger to said EMS workers, and that therefore they didn't even know to look for her, had been ruled irrelevant to the issue.

"That's him," Pauline confirmed. "I met with him earlier today. He's a very unlikable man, very arrogant, very self-centered, but he seems competent at this criminal defense thing. Hopefully he'll be able to get some of the charges dropped."

"Hopefully," Jake said. "How's National taking all of this?"

She shrugged. "Not as badly as you might think. I talked to Doolittle earlier and was almost flippant about Matt's arrest. He came across like this was all just routine annoyance."

"To him, it probably is," Jake said.

"He told me to tell you that when Matt gets out on bail he wants you all to keep rehearsing the tour. He has every intention of leaving on schedule."

Matt had a bail hearing at ten o'clock, Monday morning before a Superior Court judge in Santa Ana. Every seat in the courtroom was filled with reporters, Intemperance fans, and general celebrity watchers. Matt was brought in by two uniformed Orange County sheriff's deputies. He was dressed in a black jumpsuit with ORANGE COUNTY PRISONER printed in white in several places. He had shackles on his hands and feet. His entire face was a kaleidoscope of black and blue bruises. His left eye was swollen shut and there were several places where stitches had closed up open wounds. The deputies directed him to a table where his lawyer was already seated.

Perceville Maywood was short and of very slight build. He was dressed impeccably in a three thousand dollar power suit. His hair was perfectly styled, his fingernails were professionally manicured, and even his eyebrows had been neatly waxed. A Louis Vuitton briefcase was open on the table before him.

At the other table was the prosecutor from the Orange County District Attorney's office. His name was Jonathan Sparks and he was a member of the office's high profile crimes section. Since the job of this particular section was to deal with celebrity prosecutions and infamous, high media attention cases, his rugged good looks had been an unofficial requirement for selection. He was in his early forties, had a head of neat salt and pepper hair, and dressed as impeccably, if not as expensively, as his adversary.

The judge assigned to the case was Margaret Waters, a former deputy DA who had been appointed to the bench six years before. She was in her early fifties but carried it well. Her face was without a wrinkle and her brown hair was without a strand of grey in it. She looked quite resplendent in her black robe as she called the hearing to order.

Matt did not say so much as a single word during the entire proceeding. Jonathan Sparks read the crimes that Matt was accused of and outlined the sheer amounts of cocaine and marijuana that had been found in Matt's house. He held up CSI pictures of the Orange County deputies that Matt had injured during the fight to take him into custody. He outlined the residential streets that Matt had sped through during the pursuit, making sure Her Honor understood that this reckless behavior had taken place in broad daylight on a weekend afternoon.

"Quite frankly, Your Honor," Sparks said, "I find it quite miraculous that no children were killed by Mr. Tisdale during this chase. He certainly showed no consideration for the fact that there might be children present."

Sparks concluded his presentation by theorizing that Matt Tisdale was a threat to public safety, a hopeless alcoholic and cocaine addict, and, because he was a man of means who owned a house in Mexico, a considerable flight risk. He asked that bail be denied and that Mr. Tisdale be held in the Orange County jail facility until trial.

Perceville Maywood (who would furiously correct anyone who dared call him Percy) then presented Matt's side of the debate over bail. He spoke with a high, reedy, arrogant voice and explained that Mr. Tisdale was an established member of the San Juan Capistrano community who owned a house there. He was an established musician whose very livelihood was centered in Hollywood. He explained how regretful Mr. Tisdale was about his ill-advised actions and that Mr. Tisdale was strongly considering rehab to help him with his addictions. In short, he requested that Mr. Tisdale be released on his own recognizance without restrictions while awaiting trial.

Judge Waters weighed these arguments for a few minutes and then announced her decision. "Mr. Tisdale is accused of some very serious crimes against the State of California," she said. "However, I do not see him as a significant flight risk. Bail will be set at one hundred thousand dollars with the following restrictions. Mr. Tisdale, you are not to consume alcohol or use illegal drugs while out on bail. You are not to drive any motorized vehicle. You are not to leave the State of California and you are most assuredly not to leave the United States. I cannot order you into rehabilitation at this particular phase of your criminal proceedings, but I would strongly suggest you voluntarily commit yourself to treatment."

"Your Honor, I must object," said Sparks indignantly. "Mr. Tisdale is a multi-millionaire. One hundred thousand dollars is pocket change to him."

"That is the standard bail amount for crimes of this magnitude," Waters replied. "I cannot adjust the amount based on the net worth of the accused. My ruling stands." She pounded her gavel.

The two sheriff's deputies helped Matt to his feet. He conferred in whispered tones with Perceville for a few minutes and then they led him out the door. He was taken back to the Orange County jail facility where he made a single phone call to his accounting firm, ordering them to wire one hundred thousand dollars into a certain Orange County escrow account. Ten minutes later, it was done. After forty-five minutes of paperwork, Matt turned in his black jumpsuit and was given back his belongings. He changed into the fresh pair of jeans and the Black Sabbath t-shirt his limo driver had brought Perceville to bring to him. As soon as he was dressed, he and Perceville walked out the door and into a crowd of reporters and photographers.

"Don't say anything to them," Perceville said. "In all matters related to this case, let me do the talking."

"Right," Matt said.

"Matt," a reporter screamed. "Tell us what happened! Did the deputies really beat you?"

"Matt," another screamed, "Why did you run from them? Were you really transporting drugs from Mexico?"

Other questions followed, most even more ridiculous in nature. Perceville held up his hand and then, once everyone quieted down, gave a brief statement.

"Mr. Tisdale was not transporting or selling drugs at the time of his arrest, nor has he ever been involved in the sale of drugs. The police pursuit itself was a result of a simple misunderstanding combined with some overzealous law enforcement officers. The entire situation is something that ended up being blown completely out of proportion. Mr. Tisdale has admitted to having a problem with alcohol and will be looking into rehab facilities as soon as he gets home. As for the sheriff's deputies at Mr. Tisdale's house, their behavior was..."

"Whoa," Matt suddenly spoke up. "What the fuck do you mean I got a problem with alcohol? I never admitted no shit like that!"

"Matt," Perceville whispered, "I told you to..."

"Are you saying you don't have a drinking problem, Matt?" a reporter asked.

"Hell no!" Matt said. "I ain't never had no problem drinking."

The crowd laughed at his joke.

"What about the altercation with the sheriff's deputies?" someone asked. "Did you resist arrest?"

"They were just pissed off because I got away from their asses when they were chasing me," Matt said.

"Matt!" Perceville hissed. "Shut up, right now!"

"So you admit running from them?" the reporter asked hungrily.

"Fuck yeah, I admit it!" he said gleefully. "They must've had thirty of them motherfuckers chasing me at one point. I outdrove their asses and lost them. Lost them! How many people you know can say they got away from the cops? That's why they were so pissed off and started beating my ass when I got home. They're fuckin' sore losers!"

"Let's get in the car," Perceville said, grabbing Matt by the arm and pulling him forcefully toward the waiting limousine.

"What about the cocaine they found in your house?"

"How did they treat you in the jail?

"Is it true that you had a gun in your car and that you fired a couple of shots at them?"

They made it onto the limousine and the driver shut the door, sealing them off from the ravenous horde of media types. The driver got in and sped away, heading for Matt's home in San Juan Capistrano.

Perceville was furious. "What in the name of God did you think you were doing out there?" he asked, his voice particularly high and particularly reedy. "I told you not to say anything! You just admitted on camera that you ran from the police deliberately!"

Matt looked at him carefully with the one eye that wasn't swollen shut. "So," he said, "Are you a dick smoker, or what?" he asked.

"What?" Perceville yelled, his face turning red now.

"It's cool if you are," Matt said. "I don't care if you like to suck on some dude's hairy balls or take a schlong up your ass. That's your business. I just want you to know that I ain't into that shit, so don't be thinkin' you're gonna get a piece off of my ass."

"Although my sexual orientation is none of your business," Perceville said, "I assure you that I am heterosexual and I probably get more action than you do."

"I seriously doubt that," Matt scoffed.

"In any case," Perceville said. "We're talking about your mouth. You need to keep it shut. Let me do the talking for you."

"I will until you start spouting a bunch of shit about how I'm going into rehab or that them cops chasing me was a misunderstanding. There wasn't no fuckin' misunderstanding about it. They tried to catch me and they fuckin' lost! I'm proud of that shit, dude. You down with it?"

"You don't admit things like that on camera!" Perceville said. "Are you trying to get thrown in prison?"

"I'd rather go to prison then have people thinking I'm some kind of pussy," Matt said. "And that's the motherfuckin' truth."

Perceville rubbed his temples, trying to massage away a sudden headache. "God help me," he pleaded. "What was I thinking when I took this case?"

Matt's preliminary hearing was the following Monday morning, once again before Judge Waters in the Santa Ana Superior Court building. Matt arrived looking much better than he had during his first court appearance. His face was no longer swollen and most of the bruises were fading away. He was dressed in a suit and tie, his long hair hanging over his shoulders.

The accusations against him were read. He was officially charged with: possession of cocaine for sale, possession of marijuana for sale, assaulting a peace officer, resisting arrest, reckless driving, driving under the influence of alcohol, and twenty-three separate traffic offenses related to running stops signs and red lights. "How do you plea?" he was asked by Judge Waters.

"Not guilty," Matt said, repeating what Perceville had advised him to say.

The prosecutor then laid out the basics of his case against Matt. He told about the moving violation that led to the attempt to stop the offending Maserati. He told about the high-speed chase that ensued. He called as a witness the first sheriff's deputy who attempted to stop the Maserati. This officer testified that he was the one to visualize the Maserati's license number, run it, and discover that the car he was chasing was registered to Matthew Norman Tisdale of San Juan Capistrano.

"Do we have to mention my middle name in the court?" Matt said tiredly. "I've always hated my parents for saddling me with that."

"You are out of order, Mr. Tisdale," Waters barked at him. "Do not speak in my courtroom unless you are spoken to or I'll charge you with contempt. Is that clear?"

"Yeah," he said. "It's clear, Your Honor."

The prosecutor then led the court through a chronology of the events of the day in question. When the deputies were forced to call of their pursuit of the Maserati out of concern for the safety of the residents of Lake Forest (Matt opened his mouth at this point to shout out an angry dispute of the claim that they'd "called off" the pursuit, but Perceville managed to silence him by kicking him in the shin) they sent other units to the registered owner's address to ascertain whether or not Mr. Tisdale was home. When the household staff stated that Mr. Tisdale was not, in fact, home at the moment, the deputies requested entry to the house in order to establish this as fact. The servant did consensually allow the deputies to enter the residence where, in plain view, they found large quantities of cocaine and marijuana. This formed the basis for the search warrant, which, in turn, led to the discovery of almost an ounce of cocaine and a pound of high grade marijuana in the defendant's safe.

It was during this portion of the hearing that Perceville proved his worth. This testimony was offered to the court by the patrol officer � a deputy named Michael Worthington � who had made the discovery of the cocaine and the marijuana in the house.

"Tell me something, Officer Worthington," Perceville said on cross-examination of the witness. "What was your purpose in asking for consent to enter Mr. Tisdale's residence on that night?"

"As I told Mr. Sparks on direct," he said. "We were attempting to establish whether or not Mr. Tisdale was at home."

"So your purpose of gaining entry was to find out if Mr. Tisdale was home?"

"Yes," Worthington said.

"And during the course of this examination of the house," Perceville went on, "you noticed a silver bowl sitting on the coffee table in the entertainment room of the house?"

"Yes I did."

"Was the bowl covered with a lid of any sort?"

"There was a lid on it," Worthington agreed.

"And could you see through this lid and determine what the contents of the bowl were?"

"No," Worthington said. "I could not."

"So you had to remove the lid to this bowl in order to visualize the 'fine white powder, resembling cocaine' you testified to earlier?"

"Yes, I did," Worthington said.

"What made you decide to open this bowl, Officer Worthington?" Perceville asked. "You were there to find Mr. Tisdale, were you not? Did you think it possible he might be hiding in that bowl?"

"No," Worthington said, already seeing where this was going. "I did not think he was hiding in the bowl. The reason I opened it is because, in my experience, such bowls are commonly used to store illicit drugs such as cocaine and marijuana. I had reasonable suspicion to believe there might be such a substance inside. As it turned out, I was correct."

"Was there any reason, at this point in the investigation, to believe that illegal drugs played any part in the traffic violations that had brought you to that residence in the first place?"

"Well... no," Worthington admitted. "There wasn't."

Perceville then questioned him about the marijuana bowl, which had been found across the room from the cocaine bowl. He used the same line of inquiry and got the same answers. The bowl was covered with a lid, the contents were not visible while the lid was on, the container was too small for Mr. Tisdale to hide in, and Worthington had to remove the lid in order to discover the contents.

"Thank you, Officer Worthington," Perceville said, nodding at him. "I have no further questions."

The prosecutor could certainly see where Perceville was going with this. He did a redirect examination of Officer Worthington and went into great detail about his training, experience with drugs and drug storage devices, and whether or not Worthington had ever seen such containers used for anything other than drug storage.

The damage, however, had already been done. The prosecutor finished up his presentation by calling two of the deputies who had fought with Matt while taking him into custody. Perceville did not even cross-examine them. The prosecution rested its case and turned the floor over to the defense.

"I request," Perceville told Judge Waters, "an evidentiary hearing on the admissibility of the cocaine and marijuana found in Mr. Tisdale's residence."

"On what grounds?" asked Judge Waters, although she already knew on what grounds.

"Officer Worthington and the other Orange County sheriff's deputies entered Mr. Tisdale's residence under the rule of consensual search. The scope of this search was to ascertain whether or not Mr. Tisdale was in residence at the time. Officer Worthington has testified that he opened sealed containers on Mr. Tisdale's furniture, containers in which he could not determine the contents through visualization and that were too small to reasonably conceal the object of the search � namely Mr. Tisdale himself. The opening of these containers constitutes a blatant Fourth Amendment violation and the contents should therefore be ruled inadmissible under the Exclusionary Rule. Furthermore, the larger amounts of cocaine and marijuana found in Mr. Tisdale's safe should also be ruled inadmissible under the Fruit Of The Poisonous Tree Rule, in that the warrant used to search Mr. Tisdale's house stemmed directly from the illegal search and seizure of the smaller amounts of cocaine in the bowls on his tables."

Judge Waters nodded thoughtfully. She looked at the prosecutor. "Counselor?" she asked. "I assume you have objection to Mr. Maywood's request?"

"Yes I do, Your Honor," he said. "Officer Worthington and the other deputies entered Mr. Tisdale's residence by consent of the housekeeping staff. It is true that their purpose inside there was to determine whether or not Mr. Tisdale was home and not to look for evidence of narcotic possession. However, Officer Worthington, being an experienced law enforcement professional, was able to recognize that the small silver bowls on Mr. Tisdale's tables were of the type commonly used to store drugs and drug paraphernalia. Officer Worthington has, in fact, testified that he has never seen such bowls used for anything but the storage of drugs and drug paraphernalia. It was therefore quite reasonable for him to open the bowls and examine the contents. He had reasonable suspicion that those bowls, which were in plain view and therefore covered under The Plain View doctrine, would contain illicit substances."

"Rebuttal, Mr. Maywood?" asked Waters.

"Indeed," Perceville said. "I will return to the fact that Officer Worthington was in Mr. Tisdale's house for the sole purpose of determining whether or not Mr. Tisdale was there. Despite what Officer Worthington's training and experience dictate, there was absolutely no reason for him to go opening sealed containers that were too small to harbor the five-foot eleven, one hundred and eighty-three pound man they were searching for. It doesn't matter that, in Officer Worthington's experience, such bowls typically contain drugs. As a California peace officer and representative of the government, he had no right to start opening Mr. Tisdale's belongings."

"All right then," Waters said after hearing this. "I find there is enough question about this matter for me to schedule an evidentiary hearing. We'll reconvene in two weeks and hash this all out then."

With a pound of her gavel, the preliminary hearing was put on hold.

Despite the legal troubles hanging over Matt and the distinct possibility that he might be incarcerated or pending trial on January 15, the day the tour was supposed to kick off, the band continued to put the production together as if they would be going ahead with it. They formulated a play list for the concert and began to put together what little choreography they imbibed in as far as lighting and stage set-up went. The production crew designed and built the stage and lighting sets they would be using and then went about the process of training the roadies to set it up and tear it down. Jake was set up with several language experts who would teach him to deliver his between song banter in whatever the native language of the venue happened to be. It was planned for Jake to learn several different phrases in Japanese, Mandarin Chinese, German, French, Dutch, Luxembourgish, Norwegian, and Swedish.

"Those foreigners love that crap," Crow assured him when the plan was announced. "They'll eat it up."

"Right," Jake said, thinking that his accent was going to sound horrible and that there was a distinct possibility he'd screw up at some point and either mix up his phrases, misspeak a word, or, worst of all, use the wrong language in one of the countries. He could imagine telling his Amsterdam audience how great it was to be there in Norwegian or Swedish. Nevertheless, he agreed to the language lessons and vowed to do his best.

On November 22, the day after Matt's preliminary hearing, the entire touring stage and lighting set was assembled for the first time in Intemperance's rehearsal warehouse. It looked familiar to them and that was for good reason. With only a few minor changes and upgrades, it was the same stage they played on during the recent It's In The Book tour. The roadies set up all of the band's equipment, amplifiers, effects pedals, and instruments and wired them into a soundboard. That was when Nerdly took over command of the operation. He was the one who dialed in their sound for each venue. His now-constant companion, Sharon Cohen, was at his side as he directed each band member to play this or that on their respective instrument or to sing into their microphone.

"He seems in a better mood today, doesn't he?" Jake asked Matt while Nerdly worked on Coop's drum set.

"Yeah," Matt said, puffing on a cigarette and taking an occasional sip from a glass of iced tea. "He actually had a conversation with me when we got here. And I haven't heard him whine a single time about having to go traipsing around the Eastern Hemisphere for four intercoursing months."

"You think he just learned to accept it?" Jake asked.

"No," Matt said. "I think that one of two things is going on here. He either thinks I'm going to be convicted and thrown in the joint so he won't have to go..."

"That's possible," Jake said. "It doesn't sound quite right though. Remember, he was still being a little bitch to us the last week or so, and that's when it really looked like you were gonna end up in the slam."

"Exactly," Matt said. "Which is why I think it's the second possibility that's actually going on."

"What's the second possibility?" Jake asked.

"Matt!" shouted Sharon from over at the soundboard. She was wearing a pair of baggy jeans and an extra-large sweater. A UCLA baseball cap was perched on her head.

"What?" Matt yelled back.

"Bill wants you to play a few riffs through the number one effects pedal."

"Aye aye," Matt said, snapping a mock salute at her. He snuffed out his cigarette and picked up a guitar pick. With his left foot, he stomped down on the first of the four effects pedals that were arrayed beneath his microphone stand. His chair was situated so he didn't even have to get out of it. "Coming at you!" he yelled at the direction of the soundboard. He then played a few repetitions of the main riff for Living By The Law, which utilized that particular effect primarily. The sound blasted out of the amplifiers, filling the small warehouse with heavy metal sound.

Sharon made a throat-cutting gesture and Matt stopped mid-riff, restoring silence after the briefest feedback whine.

"Hold there for a second," Sharon yelled at him. "He's gonna adjust the treble and tune down the volume a little bit."

"Fuckin' A," Matt said, setting the guitar back down in his lap. He looked at Jake. "The second possibility," he told him, "is standing over there next to Nerdly on the soundboard. I think he's playing hide the Vienna sausage with her now."

"Well... yeah," Jake said. "It's pretty obvious that something is going on between them. They're together every minute now and they go out almost every night from what I understand. But that's been going on for weeks too. Why would he suddenly get in a good mood today when he's been banging her weeks?"

"I'm not sure, exactly," Matt admitted. "I'm pretty sure it has something to do with her though."

Jake simply shrugged. When it came right down to it, he didn't really care what it was that put Nerdly in a better mood, he was just glad that something had. Being shunned and held in contempt by one's oldest friend was never a fun thing. And when the friend in question was in the running for King of the Nerds, it was even worse.

They dialed in the effects pedals on Matt's guitar one by one � the process taking the better part of thirty minutes. Nerdly and Sharon then started working on Charlie's bass � which he'd just finished cleaning and sterilizing with disinfectant-soaked wipes. Charlie's bass had been wiped down so many times with these wipes that the finish on it was now faded, bleached, and completely ruined in several places.

"Hey, guys," he told Matt and Jake, "did I tell you about the new sponsor I'm signing with for the tour?"

"Pauline said you were getting an endorsement from some animal rights group," Jake said.

"That's right," Charlie said. "They're called HAITA � Humans Against the Immoral Treatment of Animals. They've invited me to be a member of their organization and a spokesperson because of my opposition to eating meat and my promotion of the vegetarian lifestyle."

"What the fuck's up with that shit, freak boy?" Matt asked. "I thought you were a vegetarian because you were afraid of tapeworms and trichinosis."

"I am," Charlie said. "But HAITA doesn't care about that � or at least they don't know about it. They're giving me eighty thousand dollars a tour to put a HAITA sticker on my bass and to do a few magazine spots for them. I get their monthly newsletter for free too."

"Aren't they the freaks that sneak people inside slaughterhouses so they can film the fuckin' cows getting killed?" Matt asked.

Charlie shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "They didn't say nothin' about that."

"That's them," Jake said. "They think we should all stop eating meat of all kind because the animals don't like it."

"Fuck the animals," Matt said. "If they didn't want us to eat them, then they should've evolved better."

"They don't think people should fish either," Jake said. "They say the fish feels too much pain when you catch it."

"No fishing?" Matt nearly screamed. "Because the fish feel pain? That's the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard of."

"They do have a good point there, Matt," Charlie advised. "Fish do have a fully intact and functioning nervous system. It stands to reason that they feel pain when you hook them."

"Do they feel pain when a fucking grizzly bear hooks them out of the water and eats them alive?" Matt asked. "At least I kill the motherfuckers before I eat them. Do they want to have guards standing by at the rivers to keep the bears away from the fish? And then what happens to the bears? Now they're fucking starving."

"Uh... well, I think they look at that as more of nature thing," Charlie said. "They think that humans no longer need to eat animals to survive."

"Are you preaching to me, freak boy?" Matt said menacingly. "Don't you dare start telling me what kind of fucking food I should be eating."

"No," Charlie said, terrified, "I wasn't..."

"You start preaching animal rights to me," Matt said, "and I'm gonna go down to Cabo, catch a two hundred pound marlin, bring it back here alive, and then shove the whole fucking thing up your ass."

"No, really," Charlie said. "I'm just doing it for the money. I swear."

"You fuckin' better be," Matt said.

"Charlie!" Sharon yelled over. "Give us a rhythm on the bass so we can dial you in!"

"Right," Charlie said, standing up and moving as far away from Matt as he could get. He began to thump out the rhythm to It's In The Book.

"Fucking HAITA," Matt mumbled, shaking his head. "Just when you think that asshole can't get any freakier."

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "He's a few grams short of an ounce all right, but listen to him play that bass. He's fuckin' magic with it."

"Yeah," Matt said sourly. "He's all right. I still can't wait until Darren gets strong enough to come back."

Jake said nothing to this. Whether or not Darren would ever be able to return to the band was still quite in question. Though he had recovered his ability to walk and move and even lift things, he remained dreadfully weakened by the aftereffects of the botulism toxin on his muscles and nervous system. He had very little endurance for any kind of exertion, generally tiring out after less then ten minutes of repetitious activity. He was going to physical therapy to try to regain his strength, but over the past two months it was reported that he was skipping out on many of his sessions and leaving early from the ones he did go to. He seemed to be locked into the grip of a major depression and there was some circumstantial evidence that he was abusing alcohol and prescription pain pills again.

"Jake!" Sharon yelled. "Give us some guitar with effects pedal two so we can see how it mixes with the bass."

"Yes, ma'am," Jake said, stomping down on pedal two beneath his microphone stand, the pedal that put his guitar into acoustic mode. "Play something mellow, Charlie," he said. "There ain't any acoustic in Book."

"Oh... right," Charlie said. He switched to the rhythm for Point Of Futility and Jake played the backing guitar until Sharon told him to stop.

In all, it took more than two hours until Nerdly and Sharon reached the point where Matt and Jake had to tell them that enough was enough.

"The sound is good, Nerdly," Jake said. "Why don't we try playing a couple of songs now?"

"Are you sure?" Nerdly asked from the soundboard. "I think if I tweaked a little more on the main strings section and played with the low end on the rhythm, I might be able to..."

"Just get your ass over here and sit down behind the piano!" Matt yelled. "Enough is fucking enough."

"Well... all right," Nerdly said. He was unoffended by Matt's outburst. After so many years, it was pretty much the norm.

The planned opening song for the tour was Can't Chain Me, from the It's In The Book album. They did a run through of the song as they normally performed it. Since they were out of practice, they had to stop and restart twice because of mistakes. The first was when Coop played the wrong drum intro to the second verse. The second was when Jake started mixed up the words and put the first half of the second verse in the place usually reserved for the second half of the first verse.

"You ever notice," Matt asked the band at large, "that Jake never fucks up his songs? He only fucks up my songs."

"I could fuck up a couple of mine if it would make you feel better," Jake replied.

The third time was a charm and they went through the tune flawlessly. They then had a discussion about whether they should play it just like that or if they should alter the opening or the closing in some way in order to fit the situation.

"We gotta have some kind of different opening," Jake said. "It's the first song of our first international tour. This is the first time that most of these people will have ever seen us live. We can't just walk out on stage and start playing."

"Why the fuck not?" asked Matt, the die-hard traditionalist.

"I think we should start with a pre-recorded intro track," Nerdly suggested. "Maybe something like the 2001 Space Odyssey theme. Play it all the way through while the stage is dark and then, when the last note fades out, the lights come on and we launch immediately into the main riff."

"Start the tune with the main riff?" Coop asked. "You want to skip the intro completely?"

"Why not?" Nerdly asked. "It'll be revolutionary."

"We ain't using no fuckin' pre-recorded tracks," Matt said. "You can just scrap that idea right now."

"I don't think cutting the intro to the song is a real good idea either," Jake said. "The Chain Me intro is very distinctive and very hard-driving. A lot of the fans will be pissed if we don't play it. We can expand it to give us more of an opening flourish, but we can't cut it."

"You guys never like my ideas," Nerdly pouted.

"We like your good ones, Nerdly," Matt said. "This just ain't one of 'em."

After another ten minutes of discussion, they decided to alter the intro into something with a gradual build-up in both volume and intensity.

"We start with something simple," Jake said. "A little five note progression, medium tempo. Something like this." He started to strum out a rhythm on his guitar, five notes, over and over. One... two... three, four, five. One... two... three, four, five. He did this six or seven times and then looked at Charlie with irritation. "Feel free to jump in here anytime, Charlie."

"Oh... right," Charlie said. He began fingering his bass strings, quickly picking up the rhythm Jake was setting.

"And then I can come in with effects three distortion," Matt said.

"Right," Jake said. "The same distortion level as the tune."

Matt started to play sharp, choppy notes at the same tempo as Jake. It was a classic rock intro piece.

"We can keep the lights down during this part," Jake said. "They'll be up just enough for the audience to see our silhouettes. Coop, now you can come in with tom strikes on the changeover."

Coop did that a few times. "I could gradually work up to double strikes," he suggested.

"Let's hear it," Matt said.

They heard it and liked it.

"Nerdly," Jake said. "Start throwing in some random piano accompaniment."

Nerdly did so and it was good.

"It would be better, Jake," said Matt, "if you put your guitar on effects three, just like mine. We'll do it in synch until we get to Nerdly's piano part. After that, you keep up the rhythm and I'll start putting in some solo bits."

"Okay," Jake said, liking the sound of that. "Let me switch over." He stomped down on pedal three, changing the sound of his guitar. Matt matched the tempo with him and, while Nerdly threw in his random piano pieces, Matt began to solo using long, drawn-out notes and moderate tempo fingering on the strings.

"Yeah," Coop said, hitting his toms again. "I like it so far."

"Now let's start to pick up the tempo," Matt said. "Gradual progression. Freak boy, you take the lead on it and Jake and Nerdly will keep up. Coop, as it speeds up, start to give us more toms and some bass drum."

"And then," Jake said, "when we start to get closer to the climax, start giving us constant tom and snare back play."

"Right," Coop said.

They worked on it for more than thirty minutes, stopping and starting, changing and modifying, until finally they had the very basics of a forty-five second intro piece that climbed to a grand climax and ended with a furious drum barrage and a rapid, signature Matt Tisdale guitar solo. The plan from there was to let the last note of the guitar wind down and then turn on the lights and launch into the distinctive main intro for Can't Chain Me.

"So far, so good," Jake said as they silenced their instruments and stretched their arms. "Let's take a break and then work it some more."

"Yeah," Matt agreed. "Isn't it about lunch time?"

"I could go for some chow," Coop said.

"Me too," said Jake.

"Yo! Mrs. Nerdly!" Matt yelled at Sharon, who was standing by at the soundboard with two of the assigned technicians.

"Yeah?" she yelled back.

"How about you do what you interns do best and go get us some fuckin' sandwiches?"

"You don't have to talk to her like that, Matt," Nerdly said, frowning.

"I gotta be me," he said. "So how about it? What's everyone want?"

They all gave their orders to Sharon, who wrote them down carefully and then accepted a one hundred dollar bill from Jake to pay for them.

"Bring us back some beer too," Matt said. "By the time we're done today I'm gonna need a few."

"You aren't supposed to be drinking, Matt," Jake said. "They could rescind your bail if you get caught."

"Who's gonna catch me?" he asked. "You didn't really think I was gonna stop drinking just because some pansy-ass black robed bitch told me not to, did you?"

"No, I guess I didn't," Jake said.

"What kind of beer do you want?" Sharon asked meekly.

"Corona," Matt said. "And get some limes too."

She wrote this down. "Will a twelve pack be enough?" she asked.

Matt, Jake, and Coop all burst into laughter at her question.

"What?" she asked.

"You'd better get three twelve packs," Nerdly told her.

She looked at him for a moment to see if he was kidding. After a moment, she determined that he wasn't. "Okay then," she said. "Three twelve packs of Corona and some limes."

"And ice," Matt said. "I can't stand warm beer."

"Right," she said. "And ice."

She left the warehouse, closing the door behind her.

"You know something, Nerdly," Matt said. "All kidding aside, I have to tell you, that bitch of yours is all right. She's a good sport."

"Uh... thanks," Nerdly said. "I like her a lot. She's got a good ear for music."

"How's her titties?" Matt asked. "It's hard to tell with those baggy clothes she always wears. She got a premo rack, or what?"

"The specification of Sharon's breasts are not your concern," Nerdly said.

"Oh come on, Nerdly," Coop said. "Give it up. Was she a virgin when you tapped into her, or what?"

"Doesn't that hurt?" Charlie asked. "I've never popped a cherry before. I like my chicks loose and ready."

"I don't think my sex life with Sharon is a suitable topic for conversation," Nerdly told them.

"Get the fuck out of here with that shit," Matt scoffed. "I've watched you lick a bitch's asshole out while another bitch sucked your schlong from behind. I've had a contest with you about how many bitches we could bang in one night. And now that you're scoring some regular pussy you don't want to give up the details?"

"That's right," Nerdly said self-righteously. "Those were women of loose and non-existent virtue. Sharon is a lady, and a gentleman does not reveal details about his affairs with ladies."

Matt rolled his eyes and shook his head. "That's it," he said. "I knew it would happen at some point, and I guess we're here now. Nerdly's gone faggot."

"I have not," Nerdly said. "I have never once engaged in homosexual activities."

"It's a state of mind, Nerdly, not an actual butt reaming," Matt said. "And you've definitely got the faggot state of mind going on right now."

"What exactly makes a person a real faggot?" Charlie suddenly asked.

"What?" Coop asked.

"Well," Charlie said, "if you just sucked a dick one time to see what it was all about and didn't like it, does that make you a faggot?"

Matt was looking at him with renewed hostility. "Why the fuck are you asking this shit, freak boy? Are you telling us you've sucked a dick before?"

"No," he said. "I've never sucked a dick. I was just wondering at what point you officially become a faggot. Is it the first time a dick passes your lips, or is it if you decide to do it again, or is when you..."

"I'll tell you when you become a faggot," Matt said. "It's the first time you ever wonder what it might be like to have some other dude's schlong in your mouth! You start thinking about shit like that, you're a fuckin' faggot! Now someone better change this conversation topic real soon before I either barf or kick freak boy's ass."

Nerdly immediately took up this particular challenge. He blurted out, "Sharon's going with us when we go out on tour."

Everyone stopped and slowly turned to stare at the diminutive piano player. He stared back at them, a challenging look on his face.

"Sharon's doing what?" Jake asked.

"She's coming on tour with us," Nerdly said. He looked at Matt nervously. "That's assuming that Matt's current legal entanglement doesn't prevent us from embarking on this adventure."

"You asked a bitch out on tour with us?" Matt said. "Are you high or something?"

"No, I am quite sober," Nerdly said. "I made the decision to ask her after much soul searching and contemplation of the dilemma I was facing."

"What dilemma is that?" Jake asked.

"Surely you must know what I'm talking about, Jake," Nerdly said. "You have to be engaged in the same dilemma yourself regarding Helen. Maybe you too, Matt. You and Kim have been seeing quite a bit of each other lately, haven't you?"

"Boning a bitch a couple of times a week and taking a bitch out on the road with you are two different things, Nerdly," Matt said.

"Sharon and I are doing more than just engaging in sexual intercourse," Nerdly said. "We're a couple now. Couples share things with each other; they strive to stay together if possible. I asked her to go with me because I knew that if she didn't... well... it would be the end of us."

"You think your relationship wouldn't survive a four month separation?" Jake asked.

"It's not just the separation," Nerdly said. "If I were a soldier deploying to South Korea or some other active destination, I don't think it would be a problem. I'm not a soldier though. I'm a famous musician who will be touring some of the most exotic cities in the world. There will be women dying to have sexual relations with me and I'm only human. If Sharon were not with me, I would give into the temptation of meaningless fornication. You know what I'm talking about, don't you, Jake? Didn't you go through this on our first tour?"

He was talking about Angelina, of course, who Jake had been seeing and moderately in love with when they'd left for their first cross-country tour. He had stepped onto the bus in Los Angeles and had never seen or talked to Angelina again because the temptation Nerdly was talking about had gotten to him on the very first tour date in

Bangor, Maine. The last he'd heard, Angelina was a crack cocaine addicted prostitute doing time in the Los Angeles County jail. It was not a part of his life that Jake was particularly proud of. "Yeah," Jake said sourly. "I know what you're talking about."

"I learned from your mistake, Jake," Nerdly said. "Forgive me for bringing it up and reminding you of it, but I didn't want to repeat it. I grew up a nerd, with women having no interest in me. Now that I'm a rock star, the most beautiful women in the world all want to have relations with me. I wouldn't be able to resist the temptation if I were alone out on tour. And Sharon would never be able to maintain a relationship with me if I faltered in that way. It's just how her basic persona is set up. I agonized over the dilemma for weeks and I'm afraid I wasn't the most pleasant person to be around during that time. I didn't know what to do."

"So that's why you were being such a fuckin' bitch?" Matt asked. "Because you didn't want to leave your snatch here in LA while you went on tour?"

"Correct," Nerdly said. "I must say that I actually contemplated resigning my position with the band to keep from going on this tour."

"You were gonna quit the band for a bitch?" Matt asked, thoroughly appalled at this blasphemous uttering.

"That's when I realized how much I really cared about Sharon," Nerdly said. "And that's when the simple, yet practical, solution hit me. If Sharon is out on tour with me, I will not have to worry about the women of loose virtue who will be in constant pursuit of my affections because I would have Sharon to... well... take care of my base needs. If you know what I mean."

"So if you have Mrs. Nerdly to fuck out on the road, you ain't gonna want to fuck any groupies?" Matt asked, still trying to comprehend this queer logic.

"Exactly," Nerdly said.

"That's got to be the most twisted fucking thing I've ever heard," Matt said, shaking his head in dubious wonder.

"How does Sharon feel about all this?" Jake asked. "She's right in the middle of her master's degree, isn't she? Is she willing to drop everything and spend four months crawling all around the world with you?"

"It's only a semester off," Nerdly said. "She was quite happy when I asked her, actually. She said yes even before I finished asking her the question. In truth, I think the same dilemma was causing insomnia and stress related disorder in her as well."

"What about National?" Coop asked. "What did they have to say about it?"

"Basically, they remained true to form," Nerdly said. "They agreed as long as I paid for her portion of the trip and as long as we tried not to let it be known that Sharon was out there with me. It goes against the image they're trying to foment for us."

"So you already set it up?" Jake asked.

"Indeed," Nerdly said. "I've got Bailey and Crow doing the calculations and putting Sharon into the reservation and booking system. I tried to get them to employ her as a sound technician � she's already better then most of those tone-deaf morons they have employed � but they wouldn't agree to that."

"Well," Jake said, unsure how to feel about all of this. "I guess... uh... congratulations are in order, right, Nerdly?"

"It would seem so," Nerdly said.

"What's gonna happen if you and the bitch find out you can't stand each other out there?" Matt asked.

Nerdly shook his head. "No chance of that," he said. "This is going to be my best tour ever."

The rehearsals went on and gradually they started to dial in the show they would be presenting to their foreign fans. As they worked together nearly forty hours per week over the next thirteen days, the bickering and arguing tapered off and was replaced by the camaraderie they'd enjoyed in the past. Nerdly, in particular, seemed like his old self. He was now actually looking forward to the coming tour and visiting all of the historical sites with Sharon. They spent their evenings looking over brochures from a travel agency and booking tours they planned to go on during the waiting periods in Japan and Europe.

Jake didn't get to see very much of Helen during this time. He was busy with tour production and learning various phrases in six different languages. Helen was busy teaching ground school and taking beginner pilots up in the new plane. At night, both were usually too tired for either of them to make the thirty-minute drive to each other's residence. They did make a point of getting together each weekend, however. They played golf (Helen always beat him) and went surfing and usually rounded out the evening with a gourmet meal prepared by Elsa and a rousing round of enthusiastic sex in Jake's bedroom (or his hot tub, or on his pool table). If Helen had any worries about what was to become of them when he left for the tour, she didn't articulate them. She seemed to just take things a day at a time.

Matt took things a day at a time as well. If he was worried about his legal troubles and the possibility that he might end up doing a stretch in prison, he never articulated it and did not let it hamper his work. His Maserati had been sprung from police impound but he didn't drive it or any other vehicle. He stayed in his apartment in Los Angeles and rode in the back of limousines whenever he needed to go somewhere. Kim was starting production of a new movie � it was called Mississippi Yearning � so they were only able to get together on the odd Saturday or Sunday. They tended to stay at Matt's place or at Kim's place since Matt could not be seen publicly drinking alcohol.

On December 5, Matt and Perceville Maywood were back in the Orange County Superior Court room of Judge Waters for the evidentiary hearing regarding the cocaine and marijuana found in his house. The hearing was brief and to the point. Deputy DA Sparks presented his argument that the search of the "courtesy bowls" in Matt's residence was a reasonable thing to do, even though the officers were in the house to search for a person. He cited multiple cases to back up his position, most of which had to do with the "plain view" doctrine.

Perceville then countered with his argument, that the sheriff's deputies had permission to search for a person in Matt's residence, but not to go searching through small sealed containers lying around on the furniture, regardless of what those containers resembled.

"Just because Officer Worthington feels that small silver bowls of that type typically are used to store cocaine," Perceville argued, "does not give him carte blanche to start opening them up. Using that logic, it could be argued that when Officer Worthington sees Mr. Tisdale's filing cabinet sitting in the corner of the office, it's okay for him to start digging through it and reading Mr. Tisdale's private files because he's heard that criminals keep records of their wrongdoing in filing cabinets."

Perceville then submitted his own case briefs on the subject, most of which also had to do with the plain view doctrine, although his were cases in which that particular doctrine was found not to apply. He had done his research well (or at least his paralegals had). Two of the cases were almost identical to the situation Matt was facing. In the first, police responding to a domestic dispute call had spied a wooden box with a marijuana leaf on it sitting on a shelf in the living room. Without asking for permission, one of the officers had opened it and found half an ounce of marijuana and a considerable amount of hashish. In the second case, a police officer performing a routine traffic stop spotted a small zippered case in the glove compartment of the suspect's car when he'd reached in to get his registration. The officer demanded that the suspect hand the case over. He opened it and found two grams of cocaine, a mirror, a razor blade, and a gold plated straw.

In both of these cases, the prosecution argued that the plain view doctrine applied since the containers that were opened were of the sort typically associated with drugs. And in both cases, appellate courts had ruled that just because a sealed container looked like something that might contain illicit substances, that did not constitute the illicit substance in question being in plain view. The evidence in both of these cases was disallowed.

Upon being presented with these briefs, Judge Waters had little difficulty making a decision.

"My ruling is that the opening of the silver bowls in Mr. Tisdale's residence by Officer Worthington constitutes an illegal search and seizure," she said from her bench. "Since the finding of the cocaine and the marijuana in these bowls is the sole basis for the search warrant of Mr. Tisdale's house, any evidence gathered from that search is therefore tainted and unusable under the fruit of the poisonous tree doctrine."

She banged her gavel and just like that, the most damning of the charges against Matt became unsupportable.

"Yes!" Matt said outside the courtroom, slamming Perceville on the back hard enough to drive some of the wind from his lungs. "You're a bad-ass motherfucker, even if you do like to suck hairy ass."

Perceville did not respond to the second part of Matt's comment. By now, he was quite used to such insults. "You're not out of the woods yet, Matt," he told him. "You still have the DUI, the reckless driving charges, the evasion of the police charges, the resisting arrest charges, and the assault on a peace officer charges."

"I ain't worried about that shit," Matt told him. "I have the utmost faith in you, Tinkerbelle."

A new preliminary hearing was held the following day and Matt's bravado was shaken a bit when Judge Waters found there was sufficient probable cause to bring Matt to trial on all of the remaining charges.

"So what happens now?" Matt asked him when it was over.

"Now, I start sending my investigators out to start digging for info that will help muddy the waters a little. If I can get something to cast a little doubt on the validity of some of these charges, the prosecutor might drop them or at least try to get you to plea to a lesser charge."

"I see," Matt said, nodding wisely. "Well, get on the motherfucker then. We're supposed to go out on tour next month."

Perceville's investigators got on the motherfucker. They interviewed anyone who might even remotely be able to cast aspersions on the DA's case. They talked to Kim, to Matt's household staff, to Matt's neighbors. They dug up any information they could on the officers involved in the altercation or in Matt's booking. It wasn't long until they had just enough to muddy the waters.

Kim, two of Matt's household staff, and Matt's next-door neighbor � a real estate developer who often smoked marijuana and snorted cocaine with Matt � had all witnessed the confrontation in front of Matt's house. All were willing to testify that the Orange County sheriff's deputies had been the aggressive ones, that they had yelled out conflicting orders while pointing guns at Matt and Kim, that they had then rushed over and started manhandling both of them. It wasn't exactly the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but it was just enough to conceivably offer a defense to the assaulting a peace officer and resisting arrest charges.

The investigators also discovered that every one of the deputies involved in the fight had been accused multiple times of use of excessive force. This was not unusual, of course. Any cop who has worked the streets more than two months has excessive force complaints in his record. Two of the deputies involved, however, had actually been disciplined in the past for excessive force. Granted, the disciplines were nothing more than simple written reprimands, but it was something that would go a long way toward casting doubt in the mind of your average dumbshit juror.

On December 19, after having the weekend to mull it over, Deputy DA Sparks called Perceville Maywood and offered a plea bargain.

"What are the terms?" Matt asked when he was told about it.

"You plea guilty to the DUI charge, the reckless driving charge, and one count each of assaulting a peace officer and resisting arrest. You'll do ninety days in jail and be on probation for one year. You agree to take an anger management class and an alcohol awareness class."

"Ninety days in jail?" Matt said. "Fuck that shit. I don't want to do no fucking time."

"I've arranged that you be allowed to serve your time in the Gallahad Gardens Correctional Institute," Perceville told him. "It's a private correction facility in Newport Beach. You'd have to pay pretty good money to be incarcerated there, but it's much better than the Orange County Correctional Center, which is where you'd otherwise end up."

"I don't want to go to jail at all," Matt said. "And I don't want this to fuck up our tour plans."

"This is the best I can do, Matt," Perceville told him. "Considering that you were looking at three to four years in state prison initially, I'd think you'd be grateful for this plea."

"What if we go to trial?" Matt asked.

"Then it's a crapshoot," Perceville told him. "I might be able to cast enough reasonable doubt on a jury to get you acquitted of some or all of the charges, but I might not. Juries are made up mostly of morons and they're unpredictable. There's a very good chance you could be found guilty on all charges."

"And what would happen if I was?"

"Your sentencing would then be up to the judge. He would more than likely give you a year in the county jail, which would translate into six actual months if you exhibited good behavior."

Matt frowned. "That don't sound too fucking cool," he said.

"Indeed it does not," Perceville said. "My advice to you is to take this deal. I will ask them to defer sentencing until early May and to allow you to leave the country since your livelihood demands it."

"Will they agree to that?" Matt asked.

He nodded. "They'll agree to it."

"All right," Matt said. "I guess I'll take it."

"Good man," Perceville said. "I'll get in touch with the DA immediately."

By December 23, the last business day before the Christmas holiday period, it was all over but the sentencing. The DA's office agreed to all of the terms of the plea bargain, as did Matt. Judge Waters, who was quite sick of having the scrungy musician and his pompous lawyer in her courtroom, agreed to the plea deal as well, including the out of country provision and the delayed sentencing provision. The California DMV, once they had a guilty plea in the criminal justice system, was then allowed to act on the charges as they related to Matt's driving privileges. Matt's driver's license was suspended for eighteen months.

Kim Kowalski, meanwhile, had been going through her own legal quagmire as a result of that night. Her lawyer was not of the same caliber as Perceville Maywood, but he did have the benefit of Perceville's investigators' statements from the next door neighbor and the household staff. She was eventually offered a plea bargain in which she pled guilty to one count of resisting arrest and one count of battery on a peace officer. She was placed on one year of probation and given no jail time at all.

"A fuckin' happy ending," Matt said, raising a beer in the Flamingo Club for the first time since being arrested. "I love happy endings."

"So the tour is on?" Kim asked him, raising her Long Island Ice Tea in return.

"The tour is on," he said.

She nodded and finished her drink. They left early that night and spent two hours having sex in Matt's living room.

The next morning Jake, Helen, Nerdly, Sharon, and Pauline boarded a commercial airliner at LAX so they could fly to Heritage for Christmas with their families. This would be the first time that Helen and Sharon were introduced to their respective partner's parents and both of the women were a little nervous at the prospect.

"Nothing to be worried about," Jake told Helen as they cruised thirty-five thousand feet above the Central Valley. They were sitting in the first row of the first class section. "My parents are pretty normal people."

"Then what happened to you?" she asked him.

He chuckled, shaking his head a little. "Are we using derogatory humor to detract from our feelings of anxiety?" he asked.

"Are we imitating Nerdly?" she shot right back.

"Wow," he said. "I guess I was. Sometimes it creeps up on you unexpected."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Jake staring out the window at the landscape below, Helen sipping from a cup of coffee.

"Do you think they'll like me?" Helen finally asked.

"They liked Mindy Snow," Jake told her. "And you're much nicer than she was."

This didn't seem to make her feel much better. It only seemed to shift her anxiety in a different direction. "You and Mindy... uh... broke up right before you went out on tour, didn't you?" she asked.

"Yeah," Jake said. "We did."

"And that other woman you were dating... that first one you told me about..."

"Angie," Jake said.

"Right. Angie. You broke up with her right before you went out on tour too, didn't you?"

"Well... there was never an official break up there," Jake said. "But... yeah. I never saw her again after we left on tour."

She nodded thoughtfully and took a small sip of her coffee. "Jake... this is probably not the time to bring this up, since it's Christmas and I'm going to meet your parents and all, but... well..."

"You're worried about what's going to become of us when I go out on tour."

"You have to admit, it's a valid worry. Your relationships don't tend to survive the experience."

"That's true," Jake said. "They don't."

"I know that we've been just sort of... you know... going along with this thing we have between us. And I know I told you back in the beginning, back in Omaha, that I was just in it for the sex and that I wasn't holding you to any sort of commitment or anything, but... well... I've really grown to like you a lot, Jake."

"I know," he said. "And I've grown to be quite fond of you as well."

"This is really hard for me, Jake. I'm not really sure how to even say what's on my mind." She took a deep breath. "You've told me what kinds of things go on when you're out on tour. The things with the groupies?"

He nodded. "Yes. There are a lot of groupies at every stop."

"Are you going to... you know... have sex with them while you're out there?" she asked. "I'm not here telling you not to or anything... but..." She shook her head in frustration. "I'm not sure how I'll feel about it if I know you're out there... doing those things while I'm here. I mean, maybe we could agree to see other people while you're gone. I've heard that can work and that people can get back together afterward."

"Is that what you want?" he asked.

"I would agree to it," she said. "There's really nothing I could do to stop you. I'm just... just not sure if I would want to be with you anymore once you came back. I don't know this for sure, Jake, but I'm trying to be honest."

"I know what you're saying," Jake told her. "And I don't blame you for feeling that way."

"So... what are we going to do? I won't ask you to be celibate while you're out there. I couldn't ask that of you. I know how hard it would be and even if you did it... you'd resent me and I'd always worry that you were really screwing your brains out and just telling me you weren't. And then there's..."

"Helen," he said, stopping her. "There is a solution to this problem."

"There is?" she asked. "What is it?"

He took a deep breath and looked in her eyes. "What would you think about coming with us when we go?"

Her mouth dropped open in surprise. Whatever she had been expecting to hear out of this conversation, that certainly hadn't been on her list of possibilities.

South Island of New Zealand

January 24, 1989

10:24 AM, local time

The rented Cessna 172 leveled off at thirteen thousand feet above mean sea level, just five hundred feet below the maximum operational ceiling of the aircraft. Jake was a little nervous. He had never flown this high before and he didn't like the sluggish way the plane responded to the controls in this thin air.

"You're doing just fine," Helen told him. She was sitting in the seat next to him, handling all of the navigation tasks.

"It's hard to breathe this high," Jake said. The plane was not pressurized, so its occupants were subjected to the outside atmospheric pressure. "It feels like no matter how many breaths I take, I'm not getting enough."

"You'll get used to it," she said. "If you start to get a headache, let me know."

"Why?" he asked. "Do you have to take over if that happens?"

"No," she said with a smile. "I have some Tylenol in my bag. That would probably get rid of it."

"Oh," he said, giving her a slight smile. She returned it, only a little slighter. She hadn't been smiling much the past three hours.

The reason they were flying so high was because they were over the Southern Alps, the mountain range that ran along the west coast of New Zealand's South Island. Less than twenty miles in front of them was Mount Cook, the tallest mountain in New Zealand. It's jagged, snow-capped triple peak rose 12,316 feet above sea level. All around it were the other, lesser peaks of the Southern Alps range, with jagged gorges and valleys in between.

"Isn't that beautiful?" Jake asked, staring at the majestic scenery around them now that the plane was finally level and he wasn't looking primarily upward. "I really love this place."

He was not speaking figuratively. He had literally fallen in love with everything about the country of New Zealand, but particularly with the Southern Island. The tour had arrived on January 16, landing in Auckland on the Northern Island. They did three shows there and then three more in Wellington. After Wellington, they'd been flown to Christchurch on the Southern Island. They had four days off in Christchurch while they waited for their equipment � which was traveling by ship � to catch up to them.

This was day three of the break, their first of the tour. For the first two days Jake and Helen had explored the area around Christchurch and that was when Jake fell truly and completely in love. The Southern Island was beautiful in every way. The weather was warm but not hot. The scenery was some of the most spectacular on Earth. Christchurch itself was a clean, modern city of moderate size with very little in the way of slums or ghettos. The people in Christchurch were friendly and tended to mind their own business (as much as such a thing was possible when rock stars were in town). In a way, Christchurch reminded Jake of a Utopian version of Heritage.

"This is really pretty," Helen had to agree, even through the funk she'd been in. "It's like we're flying into a postcard or something."

"The turbulence is kind of a bitch though," he said as the plane bumped and rocked in the unstable air.

"It's the wind coming up over the mountain peaks," Helen said. "It can play hell sometimes."

"Yeah," Jake said as another violent jolt rocked them. "I guess so."

He flew on and silence descended once again. Jake brought them two miles to the south of the main peak of Mount Cook and then turned leisurely to the northwest. He could now see the glacier going down the west side of the mountain merging with the lush green of a rainforest near the base. From there, the land sloped gently to the dazzling blue waters of the South Pacific Ocean.

"I want to live here," Jake said whimsically.

"You want to move to New Zealand?" Helen asked in wonder, not because she thought the idea strange, but because Jake was someone who could do such a thing if he wished.

"Maybe not permanently," he said. "But I'd love to have a winter house here. Somewhere near Christchurch but a little bit out of it. Maybe up in those hills that surround the city. I wonder if they'll sell real estate to Americans or if they're like Mexico and only let you lease the land."

"I don't know," she said. "It was easy enough for you to rent this plane. They didn't even check to make sure your license was valid. I suppose if you have enough money you can do whatever you want."

"Yeah, sometimes it seems to work that way," Jake agreed.

Jake had to do some maneuvering as they passed in front of the mountain and the updrafts slammed into them. The plane began to bounce and shake like a car driving down an undeveloped dirt road. He had to nose down a little to counter the increased lift and turn to the west a little to keep from being pushed toward the mountain by the wind. He was feeling more than a little nervous about the flying conditions. Never before had he encountered turbulence like this. Helen's relaxed and unworried attitude did much to ease his mind.

When they finally passed out of the updraft zone in front of the mountain, Jake reduced power and put the nose down so they could descend back down to four thousand feet or so. He would then parallel the west coast of the island northward until they reached Hokitika, a small coastal town where they would land and have lunch before heading back across the mountains.

It was an exciting adventure to be in a foreign country, piloting a small plane over a large mountain range and then navigating to a town he'd never heard of until two days before. Some of Jake's enjoyment, however, was being sapped away by the dark mood Helen was in. As the plane bounced and bumped its way downward toward the glacial wastelands and the rainforest, he decided to try talking about it with her. Hell, anything could work, couldn't it?

"So, what's the problem?" Jake asked her.

"What do you mean?" she asked, not looking at him.

"You've been giving me the silent treatment all morning. Why?"

"I'm not giving you any kind of treatment," she said.

Jake sighed. "Yes, you are," he said. "Obviously you're upset about something, so how about you tell me what it is and we'll talk about it."

"If you don't know what it is, I'm not going to tell you."

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ," he cried, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. "For someone raised by a man, you're sure acting like a girl right now."

"I am not acting like a girl!" she shouted at him. To Helen, that was one of the worst insults imaginable.

"Then why don't you be a man and tell me what's bothering you," he said.

She finally looked at him, her eyes shooting daggers at him. "I would think you would know what upset me this morning. Did you forget about that little incident with those two sluts?"

"Ohhh," Jake said, nodding. "Is that it?"

Jake and Helen had spent last night in a luxury hotel in Lake Tekapo, a small resort town at the eastern base of the Southern Alps. This morning, after they'd had breakfast in the hotel's restaurant and had been waiting out front for the taxi that would take them to the small airport, two young women named Hannah and Dandie had come out of the front lobby and recognized Jake. They immediately came over and engaged him in conversation.

The two girls were from England and were in New Zealand on holiday. They both said they were twenty-two years old but Jake suspected that they were actually closer to nineteen, twenty at the very most. Hannah was a blonde dressed in a very revealing spaghetti strap top and a pair of short shorts. Dandie was a brunette in a skimpy brown one piece dress that left her cleavage exposed on top and the majority of her shapely legs exposed on the bottom.

After fawning over him, telling him how unbelievable it was that he was here at the same time as they were, and asking all of the usual questions about what he was doing in Lake Tekapo, how he came up with his songs, where was Matt and Nerdly, when was the next album coming out, they both pulled scraps of paper from their purses and asked for autographs.

"No problem," Jake said. "Do you have a pen?"

"Uh... sure," Hannah said, digging furiously in her purse and finally producing one.

Jake took it from her. "How do you spell your name, Hannah?" he asked.

She told him and he scrawled out his usual bullshit line about meeting the nicest two girls in Lake Tekapo and signing it. He then did the same for Dandie. Through this all, Helen stood next to him, completely ignored by the two girls, just waiting for it to be over so they could get into the taxi, which had just pulled up.

"Thank you sooooo much, Jake," Hannah told him with stars in her eyes.

"Yes," agreed Dandie, was nodding furiously at him. "We just love all of your music. We tried to get tickets to one of the shows in Christchurch but they all sold out as soon as they went on sale."

"Yeah," said Hannah. "And the bloody scalpers are asking for nine hundred dollars for even the worst seats."

"And I don't even get a cut of those dollars," Jake said.

The two girls giggled as if this was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

"I don't suppose," said Hannah, "that you have any extra tickets on you?"

"Nope," Jake said. "Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to pass out tickets to any of the shows. It's a contract thing." This was not strictly the truth, of course. If Jake or any of the other band members or even some of the upper echelon of the road crew wanted someone to have tickets to any particular show, it could be arranged. Jake was not in the habit, however, of arranging it for young girls he met in front of hotel lobbies � even if they were incredibly cute and exuding naked sexuality.

"Oh," Hannah said, pouting a little. "Well, that's too bad." She brightened a little. "Could you sign one other thing for me?"

"What's that?" Jake asked, although he already knew. Such requests were very common.

She stepped closer to him and pulled down the left side of her spaghetti strap top, exposing her naked breast to his eyes. "Could you sign my boob?" she asked him.

"Hannah!" Dandie squealed. "I can't believe you did that!"

"Yes, what would your mother think, Hannah?" Jake asked.

"My mum would have her top down too," Hannah told him. "Hell, probably her tarty knickers as well.

"Well, a pity mum's not here, isn't it?" Jake said, getting another laugh from the two girls. He took Hannah's pen again and scrawled his signature across the downslope of her breast without actually touching it.

"Lovely," Hannah said dreamily, as she gazed at the pen markings. "I'm never going to wash this boob again."

"I really wouldn't recommend that," Jake said.

"Uh... Jake," said Dandie nervously. "Could you... you know..."

"Bring it on out, hon," Jake said. "I still got the pen in my hand."

With a happy smile she rolled the entire front of her dress downward, baring both of her apple-sized breasts. Her tiny nipples were standing up proudly. Jake leaned forward and autographed the right one, again without actually touching it.

After the two girls covered their breasts back up, they finally acknowledged Helen.

"Could you be a dear and take a picture of us with Jake?" Hannah asked her.

"Sure, why not?" Helen asked. She took the camera and backed up a few steps. The two girls got on either side of Jake and put their arms around him and their heads on his shoulders. He put his arms around their waists. They smiled for the camera and Helen took the shot. She then had to take another shot with Dandie's camera.

The encounter soon ended when Jake told the two girls that they had a plane to catch. They fawned for a few more moments, thanked him profusely, and then finally went on their way, allowing Jake and Helen to climb into the taxi.

And, now that he thought about it, that was when the silent treatment had started.

"Why are you upset about that?" he asked her now. "You've seen a hundred girls stick their tits in my face to have them signed. It happens every time there are girls around, doesn't it?"

"Yes," she said. "I don't much like it, but I understand it's part of who you are. I'm involved with a rock musician and I have to accept that part of your job is signing titties and being nice to sluts."

"Well... it's not actually in the contract," Jake said, making an attempt at a joke.

It fell flat. "It's not the fact that you signed those girls' tits," Helen said. "What did that slut whisper in your ear while I was taking the picture?"

She was talking about Hannah, who had indeed whispered something in Jake's ear while Helen had been taking the pictures. "Just the normal crap that women are always whispering in my ear," Jake said.

This was not exactly the right thing to say. "This happens all the time?" Helen yelled. "What did she say? I want to know."

"Uh... well, she said that she and her friend were staying in room something or other and that I would be welcome to visit them tonight if I wanted to have some fun."

"She asked you to come to her room and fuck both of them?" Helen asked.

Jake shrugged. "That is how I took the invitation," he said. "I don't know why you're upset about it. I'm not planning on doing it."

"You told her, 'I'll keep that in mind'," Helen said. "You didn't tell her no. You said you'd keep it in mind."

"That was a jerk-off answer, Helen," Jake said. "I don't even remember the room number now. I hardly remembered the whole freakin' episode until you brought it up."

"She did that right in front of me, Jake," Helen said. "I was standing four feet away from you and she propositioned you while I was watching her. She knew I was there! If she's read any magazines or watched any TV in the past two months she knows that you and I are dating. And she still did it!"

Jake was now getting frustrated. "I'm sorry that it bothers you," he said. "But I can't help what other people do. Like I said, I'm not going to take her up on the offer."

"What if I wasn't there?" she asked. "What if she'd made that offer while you were alone? What would you have done then?"

"You mean if you were not present with me at the moment, but were still out on tour with me?"

"Yes," she said. "If I'd been in the bathroom or something?"

"I would've done exactly the same thing," Jake said.

"And what if I was back home in California?" she asked next. "Would you have taken them up on it then?"

This was touchy ground, Jake knew. He went for the oblique answer. "If you were back in California, I wouldn't have been in Lake Tekapo this morning. I would've been nursing a hangover in my hotel room in Christchurch."

"You know what I mean," she said. "If I wasn't out on the tour and you happened across that same situation somewhere, would you have done it?"

He decided to go with honesty and see where that led. "I might have," he admitted. "It would depend on the circumstances and what was going on at the moment, but yes, I might have taken them up on it."

"So you did find them attractive," she said.

"They were cute," he said. "I never tried to say they weren't."

"And young," she said. "Much younger than me."

"Not that much younger," Jake said. "Why are we even having this conversation, Helen? You are out on tour with me and because of that, I've turned down every offer of sex I've had except for those that come from you. Why are you getting upset over what I might've done if you weren't here?"

She shook her head in frustration. "You don't understand," she said.

"Then make me understand," he told her. "Tell me what's on your mind. Isn't that how people resolve problems?"

She didn't answer at first. Jake didn't push her. He continued his descent and made a shallow bank to keep them on course to the coast. It was only after he'd leveled out the turn that she found the words to say what she wanted to say.

"I'm having a hard time handling all of this, Jake," she said. "I know it seems like petty jealousy to you and it even does to me, but that doesn't make it go away. Beautiful women are constantly coming on to you. I know that's been happening the whole time we've been together and I'm pretty sure you haven't cheated on me, but now that we're out on tour together, now that I go to those after show parties with you, this whole issue is just constantly in my face now. Women pull their boobs out for you to sign them. They put their arms around you and kiss you on the cheek and rub their bodies all over you and you don't make them stop."

"I told you..." Jake started.

"I know, I know," she said. "It's part of being a musician. It doesn't pay to piss off fans and get a reputation as an asshole. What happened this morning, though... that was just too much. We're in fucking Lake Tekapo, New Zealand, some little tiny town in the middle of an obscure country, and there are still women there trying to get you into bed with them. They're so brazen about it that they proposition you right in front of me. I'm just coming to the realization that this is going to go on as long as we're together."

"Yes," Jake said. "It is going to go on as long as we're together. I don't plan to take any of these women up on their offers though."

"You did before, didn't you? You got caught with that redheaded girl down in Mexico while you were dating your last girlfriend."

"That was a completely different relationship," Jake said. "At the time I did that, Rachel and I were already on the outs. It was a mistake and I learned from it."

"And Rachel was publicly humiliated by your mistake," Helen said. "The fact that you'd cheated on her and pictures of the girl you cheated on her with were plastered all over the newspapers for a week. That bothers me as well. If you do decide to take one of these women up on their offer, my personal life and response to that won't be private. Nothing involving our relationship is private. There is always some reporter slinking around trying to get a story. Look what they're doing to poor Matt."

Matt, unlike Nerdly and Jake, had left his girlfriend back in Los Angeles. Since there had been no official break-up announced, the paparazzi and the other media types took great delight in photographing Matt in compromising positions with other girls, something that wasn't hard to do since Matt was now working on a new goal of 'getting some snatch' in every country in the free world. He partied with the groupies just as he always had and made no attempts to hide it.

"Matt is Matt," Jake said. "His girlfriend is in LA making a porno flick called Mississippi Yearning, remember? She's being filmed while she takes twelve inch cocks up her ass. What makes Matt's relationship work is that he and Kim have an understanding that fidelity is not part of the equation."

"That has nothing to do with what I'm talking about," Helen said.

"True," Jake admitted. "It really doesn't. What are you trying to say, Helen? Do you want to go home?"

She shook her head. "No," she said. "Despite all of this, I am having a good time out here with you. I like being with you and we get to be together every day. We've seen some beautiful places and beautiful things so far and it's only the beginning. I'm just having a little trouble adjusting to everything that goes along with dating a celebrity."

"I know," he said, taking his hand off the stick and putting it in her lap. "And I wish I had an answer for you, but I don't. This is life with me. I chose to follow this path and I don't regret it. I'm rich, I'm famous, I can get a table at the best restaurants just by calling and dropping my name, I can afford to buy airplanes in the United States and rent airplanes in New Zealand and stay in the finest hotels and drink two hundred dollar bottles of wine with dinner. But I also have to give up my privacy; I have to endure being recognized everywhere I go and having a bunch of asinine fans ask a bunch of asinine question of me. You have to take the bad with the good, hon. And so far, in this life I've chosen, the good is outweighing the bad. You've chosen to be with me and you have to take the bad with the good as well. If there is more bad than good... well... I don't think I have to tell you what you need to do."

"No," she said. "You don't. And at this point, the good is still outweighing the bad. You'll just have to give me a little time to get used to the bad, okay?"

"I guess that would be life with you, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah," she said. "I guess it would."

All in all, Jake was glad that Helen had come on tour with him. In the days following his semi-impulsive decision to ask her along, he had worried whether or not it was the right thing to do, whether or not it could possibly work. The distress she articulated in the first weeks in New Zealand seemed to add credence to this idea.

Nor was Jake the only one wondering if bringing Helen along was such a good idea. Both Matt and Coop had been firmly against the idea of any band member bringing any "bitch" along on the tour. Their argument was that it would break down the camaraderie of the band and deflect the creative energy required for night after night of repetitive live performances.

While Jake was pretty sure that having Helen and Sharon along for the ride did not detract from their live shows in any way � at least not yet � he did have to admit that the presence of the two women was having a detrimental effect on the normal after-show partying. Jake and Nerdly no longer participated in any of the standard rituals involving the groupies. They did not imbibe in the after show blow jobs. They did not help pick out which groupies would be allowed to accompany the band back to their hotel. They did not offer their rooms up for the normal party room rotation. Jake would typically hang out backstage in the dressing room after the shows to eat and grab a beer or two. He and Helen would make an appearance at the post-show parties in Coop's, Matt's, or Charlie's room once or twice a week but they tended not to stay long. They always left before the public sex orgies began. Nerdly did not attend any of the after show parties at all. When they came off stage he would shower, eat his dinner, and then he and Helen would find some deserted portion of the backstage area to be alone. Once back at the hotel, they would go immediately to their room and stay there until the next morning.

"You two are being fucking anti-social," Matt complained at one point. "We have to spend half of every goddamn night explaining to every groupie in the room why you're not there. Can't you just ditch your bitches every once in a while and come have some fun?"

"Afraid not," Jake told him. "I'm in a relationship right now. You can't do things like that when you're in a relationship."

"Yes," agreed Nerdly. "To engage in extra-curricular fornication would definitely jeopardize the harmonious synchronicity I'm enjoying with Sharon."

"So you two are going to go this entire tour only fucking one bitch?" Matt asked in disbelief. "We're going to have exotic groupies from all over the fuckin' world, all of whom are just dying to get a piece of Intemperance, and you're going to just ignore that?"

"Yep," Jake agreed. "That is my plan."

"I will answer in the affirmative as well," Nerdly said.

Matt just shook his head and stormed off. He didn't talk to either one of them for the rest of the day.

In truth, Jake found it quite a novelty to skip out on most of the partying. He didn't miss it as much as he feared he would. In the mornings after a show, when they had another show scheduled for that night and a heavy day of autograph sessions and radio station interviews to go to, he especially didn't miss it since he was typically well-rested and not nursing a horrid hangover. Though he still drank more than his share of alcohol, and though he still smoked a little pot every now and then, the sheer amount of his consumption was much less than it had been on previous tours. As for the cocaine, which Matt and Coop both snorted by the gram, Jake didn't so much as sniff a single flake.

They finished up the Oceania leg of the tour by the second week in February. From there, they went on to Japan and Taiwan. Though the audiences in every city on this leg were almost fanatical in their enthusiasm for the band, Jake himself was not terribly impressed with anything he found here. Sure, Mount Fuji was nice, and the side-trip he took to Nagano wasn't bad either, but he found the cities to be dirty and crowded and the people to be notorious invaders of personal space. Coupled with the fact that he didn't speak or understand the language, Jake was glad to leave Asia behind.

They left Taipei, Taiwan on March 1 and flew for sixteen hours to Heathrow Airport in London. They stayed one night in London and then caught another plane to Saint-Tropez, France where they would stay for two weeks in a decadent resort on the Mediterranean while waiting for a ship to bring their equipment around the globe.

"Fuckin' nude beaches!" Matt yelled excitedly as the limousine took them from the airport to the resort. "I'm gonna score me so much fuckin' puss at this place that they're gonna name a building after me."

"Do you have to be nude on the beach?" asked Sharon nervously.

"Hell yeah," Matt told her. "When in Saint-Tropez, you do as the fuckin' Saint-Tropezians."

"No," Nerdly corrected. "You don't have to be nude. The exact term is 'clothing optional'. And that's only at Pampelonne. At the other beaches in the area, it is acceptable to go topless but not bottomless, and even there your normal bathing suit is perfectly acceptable attire."

"Oh... good," Sharon said, obviously relieved.

"Prudes," Matt chided. "I'm going to Pampelonne and hangin' my schlong out for everyone to see and admire. And you guys don't have a fuckin' hair on your asses if you don't come with me and do the same."

"I actually do not have hair on my ass," Nerdly said.

"Me either," Sharon said.

Matt muttered a little more about what prudes he was riding with and then turned to Jake and Helen. "How about you two?" he asked. "You gonna let it all hang out?"

Jake gave him a doubtful look. "I'm not sure it's such a good idea," he said. "There's bound to be paparazzi following us. They'll snap pictures of us and put them in the tabloids. Some of them might even end up in some porno mag."

"So?" Matt asked. "They've taken pictures of your joint before, haven't they?"

"True," Jake admitted, "but I don't think Helen wants to see her bare boobs in next month's issue of Hustler."

"No," Helen said. "I really wouldn't enjoy that much."

"Why not?" Matt asked. "You've got an awesome set, hon. You should let people see them."

"Well thank you, Matt," she said sweetly. "But I like to choose who gets to see them."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Another set of prudes heard from," he said. He turned to Coop and Charlie. "What about you two? You wanna come to Pampelonne and bag some bitches with me?"

"I'm in," Coop said, already drooling over the idea. "Do they let you fuck on the beach?"

"I don't know about this whole thing," Charlie said nervously. "Having all those naked people around sounds like the perfect breeding environment for bacteria."

"Uh... yeah," Matt said, rolling his eyes. "Good point there, freak boy. We'll count you out then."

Their suites at the resort were nothing short of magnificent. On the top floor of a nine story building, they overlooked the main beach at Saint-Tropez and were equipped with ever conceivable luxury. It was a lifestyle that all of them were becoming quite used to.

Over the two week period they were there, only Charlie spent any significant time in his suite. He enjoyed staying inside most of every day, cleaning things with disinfectant wipes in case the maids had contaminated them, talking long distance to the manager of his Birmingham restaurant to make sure things were running smoothly in his absence, and staring for hours out of the window with a pair of binoculars to the beach below, looking at the bare breasts of the beachgoers and masturbating. Once every three days or so he would speak to the resort's concierge and arrange for a high end prostitute to visit his room. Once she arrived, he would make her shower with antibacterial soap, scrub her crotch with baby wipes, and then he would mount her from behind while wearing two condoms on his penis and two pairs of latex gloves on his hands. He was, however, a very generous tipper and all of the prostitutes went away with a good opinion of him.

Coop and Matt spent most of the first three days on the nude beach of Pampelonne, letting it all hang out, as it were. At the end of the third day, however, local law enforcement became involved after a small orgy between Matt, Coop, and five young women on holiday from Iceland developed just below the high tide mark. The musicians were not arrested or taken down to the police station, but they were banned from returning to the beach, pretty much for "the rest of your natural lives" as one outraged policemen termed it.

"Oh well," said Matt in response. "At least I finally managed to get me some Icelandic gash. That's kind of hard to come by outside of Iceland, you know."

"If it were up to me, sir," the Saint-Tropez police officer responded, "you would be banned not just from this beach, but from the country of France and the entire European mainland as well."

"Wow," said Coop as he heard this. "That's pretty harsh just for getting a little trim on the beach, isn't it?"

"What about England?" Matt asked. "Could we still go there?"

The policeman's face turned an interesting shade of red. "Get out of my sight," he hissed at them. "Right now, or I'll find something to arrest you for."

Matt, in a rare display of wisdom, did as he was asked with only one snide, under-the-breath remark about how these frogs were a bunch of fuckin' prudes.

For the rest of their stay on the Riviera, Matt and Coop contented themselves with fishing trips. They chartered boats on the Mediterranean and at several port towns along the Atlantic coast as well, catching over three hundred pounds of exotic saltwater fish that Matt arranged to have frozen and shipped back to his home in San Juan Capistrano.

Jake, Nerdly, Helen, and Sharon stayed the least amount of time in their suites. Basically, they spent the first night of their break there, and their last. All of the days in between, they spent visiting the various sights of Europe that the tour would not eventually be taking them to during its natural course. They financed all aspects of this trip themselves and stayed together through most of it, getting adjoining hotel suites, going on tours together, and dining together every night.

They visited Corsica for a day and then flew to Bordeaux for a two day wine-tasting tour in which Jake bought sixteen thousand dollars worth of rare wines and had them shipped home. Next, they flew to Cherbourg and visited the D-day landing beaches of Normandy and the United States military cemetery where Helen's grandfather, who had been blown to pieces by a German machine gunner while exiting a landing craft on June 6, 1944, had been buried. It was the first time she had ever visited his grave and, even though she had never met the man, even though her father only had vague recollections of the man, the experience was enough to bring tears to her eyes as she read his name on the white cross. She snapped pictures of it and made a paper engraving to give to her father.

From the rainy Normandy coast, they went on to cheerier things, flying to Spain, where Intemperance had been forbidden to perform but where they were more than happy to accept Jake Kingsley and Bill Archer's money. They spent two days in Valencia, two days in Barcelona, and another in Gibraltar, where they stood upon the famous rock and looked across the straight to the landmass of Africa. They then flew to Italy, where Intemperance had also been forbidden to perform, and spent two days seeing the sights of Rome, including the ancient coliseum and the Vatican. This left them with only two days remaining until the band was scheduled to fly to London for their first European performance. Nerdly and Sharon flew back to Saint-Tropez, their intent to stay those two days in their room, resting up and recuperating from the trip. Jake and Helen weren't quite ready to go back yet. Instead, they flew to Monaco where they lost a combined total of twenty-three thousand dollars at the gaming tables.

This portion of the international tour was, by far, the best part for Helen and Jake. It was almost like they were normal people on a normal vacation. While it was true that they were still recognized everywhere they went, that dozens of people at each destination accosted them whenever they were in public, asked them for autographs, asked inane questions of them, asked Jake to sign various portions of their anatomy, and propositioned Jake in full view and earshot of Helen, these concerns were almost secondary. They visited places like normal (although wealthy) tourists and did all the normal tourist things like snapping pictures, having passers-by snap pictures of the two of them, and goggling at the ancient architecture they encountered. There was no pressure to get ready for a show that night, no record stores to visit, no radio interviews to give. Helen seemed to learn to live with the fact that her boyfriend was a celebrity and that whenever she was with him in a public place they were in the spotlight. They fought very little and when they did, it was mostly about trivial things. As each day went by, Jake felt closer and closer to her.

It was in Monaco, the night before they flew back to Saint-Tropez, that the immortal and irrevocable words were spoken. They were eating dinner in the restaurant of the Royal Rivera Hotel, looking out over the lights of the city. They had just enjoyed a meal of Blanquette de veau � a French veal dish � and a two thousand franc bottle of 1978 Bordeaux cabernet sauvignon. Jake was dressed in a custom tailored three-piece suit he'd brought with him and Helen was adorned in a champagne cocktail dress he'd bought her in Rome two days before. While waiting for their after-dinner cognac and their cr�me brulee, Helen suddenly gazed at him with starry eyes.

"I love you, Jake," she said.

Her words did not surprise him. "I know," he said, reaching out and taking her hand. "And I love you too."

He was not lying to her when he said these words, not telling her what she wanted to hear. Though their relationship had started off a casual one, based initially on a student/teacher bond and then working its way to a strictly sexual arrangement, it had undergone a major progression over the past two months. And now, now that they had spent two full weeks in each other's presence, basically living together, the feelings of affection and friendship he had felt for her had deepened into romantic love. He had never intended for it to happen, nor had Helen, he was sure, but there it was all the same. He had known this for more than a week but it had taken Helen's declaration for him to put it into words.

"Wow," Helen said, squeezing his hand nervously. "I've... well... never said that to anyone before. Not... you know... truthfully."

"It's just three little words," Jake said. "It wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Just three little words," she chuckled. "Did you... mean it when you said it to me?"

"What do you think?"

She smiled at him again. "I think you did."

"You think correctly."

They ate their desert and drank their cognac. They then returned to the gaming tables and lost some more money. Finally, they retired to their suite and spent a considerable amount of time showing each other their newly declared love out on the balcony.

The next day, they flew back to Saint-Tropez and reunited with the rest of the band.

The day after that, they flew to London and the grueling schedule of the Great Britain portion of the tour began.

Paris, France

March 22, 1989

The limousine crawled along in the dense afternoon traffic as it headed from Charles de Gaulle International Airport to the luxury hotel on Champ de Mars. The weather was overcast with occasional drizzles � typical continental spring conditions. Inside the limo were the members of Intemperance, Helen, and Sharon. The band had finished their last Great Britain date the night before and were now embarking upon a two-day off period while their equipment was being shipped across the English Channel.

"Isn't Paris beautiful?" asked Sharon as she goggled at the sights outside.

"Yes," agreed Helen, who was goggling just as hard. "I never thought I'd ever get to see it. Now I'm arriving by limousine." She turned to Jake. "Can we go see the Eiffel Tower today? It's in walking distance from our hotel."

"Sure," said Jake with a shrug. Unlike Coop, Charlie, and Matt, he was well-rested and not hungover. "I don't see why we can't go check it out. What about you and Sharon, Nerdly?"

"I can't wait," Sharon said excitedly, clapping her hands together in excitement. "And after that, maybe we could..."

"Uh... actually," Nerdly interrupted, "I thought maybe we could hold off on the Eiffel Tower for a bit."

"Hold off?" Sharon said. "It's less than half a mile from our hotel. Why would you want to hold off?"

"I'm a little tired from the traveling," he said.

"Tired?" Jake asked, raising his eyebrows a little. "It was a two hour flight, Nerdly."

"And you went to bed at nine o'clock last night," Sharon said with a pout.

"It's also raining and windy," Nerdly said. "I'd rather wait for better weather."

Nerdly was acting decidedly strange but Jake shrugged it off. "Okay," he said. "Is it okay if Helen and I go check it out without you then?"

"Of course," Nerdly said. "Be our guest."

"Sure," Sharon said, obviously a little dejected. "Be sure to get pictures."

"What about you, Matt?" Jake asked the guitar player, who was sipping from a rum and coke he'd made. "What are you doing after we get checked in? Wanna check out the tower with us?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm gonna crash out for a couple of hours and then go find me some Parisian bitch with hairy armpits to fuck."

"I'm just gonna crash out," Coop said. "I shoulda never had those last four pints of beer last night."

Jake looked at Charlie for a moment but didn't bother asking him. With his germ phobia he would never go near a structure that was visited by six million people every year.

"It looks like it's just you and me," Jake told Helen.

She smiled, taking his arm. "All alone on the Eiffel Tower. How romantic."

"Romantic," Matt spat with a roll of his eyes and a jerk-off motion. "You people make me wanna puke."

They finally arrived at their hotel just past three o'clock. The check-in procedure went smoothly and by half past the hour, Jake and Helen had unpacked all of their clothes and put everything away. They spent a few minutes admiring the view from their window � it overlooked Champ de Mars and the Eiffel Tower itself � and then headed out for their excursion to France's most famous landmark.

Even though it was a drizzly weekday in the off-season, they still had to wait in line for more than an hour to board one of the elevators � or lifts as they were called here � to go up to the first level. They were squeezed in with fifteen other people into a rickety, dank, and frightening booth that jerked and groaned its way upward for almost two hundred feet before disgorging them on the broadest of the three platforms.

They spent twenty or thirty minutes exploring the shops and the post office on the first level, before deciding to take the stairs up to the second level of the tower to avoid the line and the terrifying elevator. This turned out to be quite a climb; almost fifteen stories worth of steps, but both of them were in good shape and were hardly winded when they came out on the second level. They explored up here for a little bit as well, spending most of their time utilizing the coin operated telescopes that lined the railing.

"I can't believe I'm looking at a boat on the River Seine," Helen said as she put her eye to the viewfinder.

"Don't tell Matt or Coop about these things," Jake said. "They'll be up here all day trying to look into hotel windows."

Tourists were not allowed to take the stairs from the second level to the top of the tower so they had to wait in another line for one of the lifts. This took the better part of twenty minutes but finally they were crammed in with another fifteen people and the jerking and groaning began once again.

The top platform was small and crowded but the panoramic view of the city was nothing short of spectacular. They snapped pictures of each other with the various views of the city in the background and then had an elderly Japanese couple snap pictures of them together. Once the photography was done they found a spot overlooking the River Seine and just stood there with their arms around each other, looking out at the view.

To this point, Jake's bulky jacket and baseball cap had kept anyone from recognizing him � or at least anyone who cared to make mention of the recognition. It was when he leaned in to kiss Helen that this suddenly changed.

"Excuse me," a voice said in English with a heavy southern accent. "Ain't you Jake Kingsley?"

Jake looked up to see an overweight man in his early twenties. He had a thick, unkempt mustache and a NASCAR cap upon his head. A skinny brown-haired woman with bad teeth was holding his hand. He debated denying that he was Jake Kingsley but past experience had taught him that such a ruse rarely worked. Instead, he put a smile on his face and acknowledged that, yes indeed, he was Jake Kingsley.

"Well, hole-ee shit!" the man exclaimed. "My name's Frank Peterson, Jake. Me and my wife here is visiting from Jackson, Mississippi. Fancy meetin' you here in Paris."

"It's very nice to meet you," Jake said, shaking hands with the man and nearly getting his fingers broken in the process.

"I tried to catch your show the last time you was in Jackson," Peterson told him. "But it was all sold out and them scalpers was asking for like three hundred bucks for a ticket. What you doin' here, Jake? You on tour? I heard you was doin' a tour in Europe."

"Yes," Jake said. "We've been on tour for the last few months. We're doing three shows here in Paris this week and then heading on to Marseille and then Zurich. Helen and I were just doing a little sightseeing."

"Well god-damn," Peterson told him, not acknowledging Jake's mention of Helen in any way. "I don't suppose you have any extra tickets to any of them Paris shows, do you? Me and Jessie is gonna be here another five days and we'd love to se y'all in concert."

"Unfortunately, no," Jake said apologetically. "They don't let us give out tickets. It's one of those contract things."

"Well that's too damn bad," Peterson said sadly. "Do you think that maybe you could give us your autograph though?"

"You bet," Jake said. "You got a pen and something to write on?"

He signed his standard autograph statement for both of them. Peterson then asked if he could get a picture taken with Jake. Helen, as she usually did in such circumstances, volunteered to snap the picture so Peterson and his wife could be in the shot together. In all, it was a fairly standard encounter with a fan. Unfortunately, while Jake was interacting with Peterson on the crowded platform, several other people had taken note of the conversation. Within seconds, word that Jake Kingsley (Yes, that Jake Kingsley) was standing up on top of the Eiffel Tower with them spread like wildfire. People began pushing toward him from all directions, asking for autographs, asking for concert tickets, asking to have their picture taken with him. It wasn't long before a few of the Intemperance-haters � there were always a few in any crowd � started to make their views known.

"What are you doing with him, hon?" asked one woman in her twenties of Helen. "Why would you be with a man who beats you?"

"He worships the devil!" yelled another man � this one in his mid-thirties. "I'd hate to be you come Judgment Day, sinner!"

This, of course, led to the inevitable exchange of words between the fans and the haters. The words quickly became heated and it only seemed a matter of moments before the physical violence began. And they were standing atop a tower more than a thousand feet in the air.

Jake tried to get them out of there at that point but the line to go down on the lift was just as long as the line to go up. So for twenty minutes they were crowded and pushed, taunted and yelled at, and forced to watch as two fistfights broke out on their behalf. And still people kept coming up and wanting to take pictures with him or have him sign an autograph. Even when they did get into the elevator, fifteen other people came in with them. Three of the fifteen were Intemperance-haters who continued to badmouth Jake's satanic ways and tell Helen what a dumb, hopeless slut she was for being with a man who beat her. Two were fans who carried on the tradition of getting in the faces of the haters. The rest were simple tourists who were getting much more than they bargained for when they bought their tickets to the Eiffel Tower.

Finally they made it back to street level and they practically ran away from the base of the tower, weaving and turning through the crowds until they were once more anonymous.

"Well," Jake said lightly once they were free. "That was fun, wasn't it?"

"Loads," Helen said sourly. "Let's do it again sometime."

Helen's irritation at having her trip to the Eiffel Tower disrupted by a melee of Intemperance fans and Intemperance haters lasted only until they arrived at their dinner destination that night. Jake used his celebrity status and the assistance of the hotel's concierge to secure them a 7:30 reservation at the Grand Vefour Restaurant, which was reputed to be the finest eatery in Paris. Located under the Palais Royal, the dining room was done up in opulent eighteenth century European d�cor. Large, gold chandeliers provided lighting to walls decorated with polished brass and large mirrors. The tables were of mahogany and covered with spotless white linens.

"This is definitely not Denny's," Helen said as they were led to their table near the center of the room by an actual snooty French maitre d.

"Nope," Jake confirmed. "This is at least up there with Black Angus."

Jake had tried to call Nerdly and Sharon to see if they wanted to come along for the experience, but they had neither answered their room phone nor responded to knocks on the door that connected Jake and Helen's suite with theirs. Figuring they must be engaged in the kind of activity that one did not like to be interrupted during, he had stopped knocking and now Jake and Helen were alone. They didn't mind. Grand Vefour was somewhat of a romantic restaurant anyway.

In all, dinner took the better part of two hours. The food was nothing short of spectacular, the service among the best Jake had ever experienced. They were served a six course meal heavy on fish and cream sauces and drank two bottles of Bordeaux chardonnay. With the dessert portion of the meal they each had a snifter of Napoleon Cognac (which Helen was starting to really develop a taste for). The bill for the meal was in Francs, of course, but if converted to American dollars it would have been $336.17. Jake paid it gladly and left a twenty-five percent tip.

They had planned to walk the district for a bit when they were done but the rain had started again and stifled that plan. Instead, they hailed a taxi and rode back to their hotel. Jake ordered two more bottles of expensive French chardonnay from room service and, while waiting for it to arrive, took off his suit and put on one of the hotel's robes. Once the wine was delivered he and Helen took off their robes and climbed into the hot tub in the middle of their suite. They sat there for almost an hour, drinking and talking, occasionally caressing each other or kissing.

About halfway through the second bottle of wine they couldn't take it anymore. Helen climbed on Jake's lap and inserted him into her body. They moved together slowly and passionately, enjoying the slippery sensation of the hot water and the oil that had been poured in it. Just as they were starting to really push toward the sizzling, raunchy part of the encounter, they heard frantic pounding on the connecting door.

"Jake!" Nerdly's voice yelled, sounding quite excited. "Helen! Are you in there? Open the door!"

"Shit," Jake said from around a mouthful of Helen's right nipple. "What the fuck does he want now?"

"Who cares?" Helen hissed. "Keep fucking me! We'll find out later."

"Right," Jake said, sucking more of the nipple into his mouth and increasing the rate of his upward thrusts.

Nerdly pounded on the door again and yelled out their names again. They continued to ignore him. Since they didn't hear any more knocks, they assumed he'd concluded they were either not there or busy and had given up. They were wrong. Just as Jake yanked Helen's head back by the hair and attached his teeth to her neck, just as Helen gasped out, "Oh... yes, fuckin' bite me! I love it!" they heard a gasp coming from the doorway to their sitting room.

They looked up and saw Nerdly and Sharon standing there, shocked and embarrassed expressions on their faces.

"Oh... oooh, uh sorry, Jake," Nerdly stammered. "You left the adjoining door unlocked so we..." He trailed off, his eyes riveted to Helen's tremendous breasts, which were dangling in clear sight.

Helen gave a little squeal and tried to slide under the water to cover herself. Unfortunately for Jake, his turgid manhood was still sheathed in her clenching womanhood. When she attempted this reflexive maneuver she didn't try to disengage from him first. This pulled the shaft of Jake's penis downward toward his feet, a direction it was not designed to be pulled in while in a state of tuminescence. A sharp, intense bolt of pain went shooting through his most sensitive part.

"Owwww, fuck... shit! Stop!" he yelled, physically grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her back upward.

"What? Jake! My boobs are showing!" she yelled back, trying to push herself back down.

"You're breaking my fuckin' dick!" he screamed, grabbing her under the armpits this time and physically lifting her free of him. She launched high enough out of the water that the top of her pubis came momentarily into view before she splashed back down.

"Ohhh, god that hurt," Jake moaned, grabbing his rapidly wilting member to make sure it was still intact.

Helen quickly submerged her breasts and looked at him with concern. "What did I do, Jake?" she asked. "Did I hurt you?"

"You can't pull a dick in that direction, hon!" he said with a wince.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Are you all right?"

Nerdly and Sharon had watched this entire scene with wide eyes and rapidly flushing faces.

"Uh..." Sharon said slowly, "maybe this is a bad time. Why don't we tell them later?"

"Right," Nerdly said, nodding rapidly. "Sorry Jake. Sorry Helen. We didn't mean to... I mean, we didn't know that... I mean..." He shook his head and turned back toward the door, grabbing Sharon's hand and pulling her to the exit.

"Wait a minute," Jake said before they could get away. "What's going on?"

"Yeah," said Helen, who was keeping all but her face under the water. "What was so important that you had to come in here while we were... uh... enjoying ourselves?"

Nerdly didn't look back at them. "It can wait until morning," he said. "We'll leave you guys alone for now."

"Yes," Sharon agreed. "Sorry about the... uh... the intrusion."

"Goddammit!" Jake yelled. "You can't break in on people like that and not tell them what's going on! So what's going on?"

"Honestly," Nerdly said, "we didn't mean to... I mean... it can wait until..."

"Oh my God!" Helen suddenly yelled. "He asked you to marry him, didn't he?"

"What?" Jake asked.

Helen stood up in the water, exposing her breasts and her pubic region this time. "Look at her finger, Jake!" she squealed. "She has a ring on it!"

Sharon turned around and giggled. "Isn't it beautiful?" she asked. "He asked me on the top of the Eiffel Tower!"

"Oh..." Helen said, melting, now seemingly unaware that her body, which she had nearly fractured Jake's penis in order to avoid exposing, was openly on display. "That's sooooo romantic! Did he drop to one knee?"

"Yes!" Sharon said, jumping up and down. "It was the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me!"

"Let me see it!" Helen said, gesturing her to come over. "It looks huge from here."

Sharon rushed over and started showing off her new ring � which was indeed of impressive size. Nerdly turned around to join in the festivities but then blanched again as he was confronted with Helen's dripping nakedness.

"Ohhh... uh..." he stammered, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Jake muttered. He stood up, not caring if Sharon saw his now flaccid penis or not, and picked up Helen's robe. He put it over her shoulders, which was enough to remind her that she was naked in front of Nerdly.

"Oh... Jesus," she said, quickly putting her arms through the holes and pulling it closed around her. The bottom of it was sitting in the water and quickly soaking it up. "I guess I got a little carried away."

"Right," Jake said, stepping out of the tub and grabbing his own robe. He put it on and tightened it around him. "Look, I can see that congratulations are in order, but why don't we put that on hold for just a few minutes until Helen and I get dressed?"

"Oh... sure, okay," Nerdly said. "We'll uh... go wait in the sitting room."

"Right," Sharon said, still beaming. "We'll be in there. And sorry again for the uh... you know?"

"Nothing to worry about," Helen said, unable to resist giving Sharon a big hug, which served to wet the front of her baggy Notre Dame sweater.

The two of them disappeared through the door, shutting it behind them. Helen looked at Jake and smiled. "Isn't it amazing?" she asked him. "And did you see the size of the diamond on that ring? I don't think I've seen one that big before."

"Yeah," Jake said, his mind spinning a mile a minute, his penis still throbbing distantly in displeasure. "It's amazing all right."

"Did you know about this?" Helen asked him.

"I had no clue," Jake said.

"That's why he was so weird about going to the Eiffel Tower with us today," she said. "He wanted to take her there at night, alone."

"It does seem to all make sense now," Jake said. "Come on. Let's go get dressed."

"You don't seem all that happy about this, Jake," Helen observed. "Is there something wrong? He's your best friend and he just told you he's getting married and you're just moping around."

"I guess I'm still trying to absorb it," he said.

They dressed in their sweats and t-shirts and then padded barefoot out into the sitting room. Sharon and Nerdly both apologized again for walking in on them while they were in the middle of something but Helen told them not to worry about it, that it was perfectly understandable considering the circumstances.

"Tell me the story," Helen squealed at Sharon. "And don't leave anything out! But first... we need to celebrate. Jake, do you think maybe we could have some champagne sent up?"

"Of course," Jake said, leaning over and picking up the nearest phone. Two minutes later he had three bottles of Dom Perignon on their way to the suite.

Sharon then narrated the story of her proposal. She had thought something was strange about Bill ever since he bowed out of visiting the Eiffel Tower with Jake and Helen on the grounds that he was too tired. Things got stranger still when he elected not to take a nap upon arriving in their suite but had instead insisted that they watch French television for a few hours. And then, just before sunset, he suggested that they go out and visit the Eiffel Tower after all since he had managed to get reservations for the caf� on the first level.

"I asked him why he didn't want to go with you and Jake," Sharon said, "and he told me that he could only get reservations for two. I believed him. I mean, it sounded reasonable to me."

"And Nerdly never lies," Jake said. "Do you, Nerdly?"

"Not usually," Nerdly agreed. "But it seemed the truth would not behoove my intentions for the evening, would it?"

"Nope," Helen said. "What happened next?"

"Well, after we ate and he paid the bill, we went to the elevator to go up to the top. There was a long line, but when you eat in the caf� they let you cut to the front of it so it only took about five minutes for us to get up there.

"The view was just beautiful, even though it was kind of crowded with people. And then, just as we're looking out at the River Seine and all the lights of the city, he says that his shoe is untied and he kneels down to tie it. I kind of ignored this at first because I thought he was really tying his shoe and I wanted to keep looking at the view. And then..." She sighed. "He took my hand in his and looked up at me. I looked down and was wondering what this was all about. And then he pulled out this little white box and opened it up and said, 'Sharon, my feelings for you are more than just passing infatuation and I would like you to join me in the lifelong commitment of legally sanctioned cohabitation'."

Helen licked her lips a little. "Wow," she said slowly. "That's uh... deep."

"I know," Sharon said, squealing a little. "Isn't it the most romantic thing you've ever heard?"

"It's in the uh... the top ten," she said.

"So you said yes?" Jake asked.

"Of course I said yes," she said. "I stood up and I kissed him so hard he almost dropped the ring."

"Let me see it again," Helen said, grabbing her hand. "Jeez. Will you look at the size of it? It must be close to four carats."

"Four point three in the main stone," Nerdly said proudly, "and an additional one point six in the stones on the band."

"Have you been carrying that thing around with you all this time?" Jake asked.

"Yes," Nerdly said. "I formulated my proposal plan back around the time I decided to ask her to go on tour with us. I purchased the ring at Tiffany's shortly before our departure."

"It fits perfectly!" Sharon said. "He measured my finger one night while I was asleep!"

Helen beamed at him again. "Did you really do that?" she asked.

"Indeed," he said. "It would not be proper to give an ill-fitting piece of jewelry that is supposed to be a symbol of my commitment to my future spouse."

There was a knock on the door. Jake answered it and found the room service steward with the champagne, the ice buckets, and four long-stemmed glasses. He let him in and soon the congratulatory beverage was ready to be consumed. Jake tipped the steward and then ushered him out. He then popped the top on the first bottle and poured them each a glassful.

"Why don't you make a toast, Jake?" Helen suggested.

"Why not?" Jake agreed, lifting his glass. He thought for a second and then decided to go with what was simple. "To legally sanctioned co-habitation and all of the tax exempt benefits that it represents."

Helen looked at him in alarm for a moment, about to bark at him. But then she looked at the happy couple. Their faces were filled with emotion.

"That was beautiful, Jake," Sharon said. "Thank you."

"You've always had a way with words, Jake," Nerdly agreed, rubbing a tear from his eye.

They clinked their glasses together and drank.

Newport Beach, California

May 22, 1989, 11:00 AM

Jake had finally made the decision to get rid of the Corvette that Mindy Snow had bought him years before. It had been an agonizing decision. Though the relationship with Mindy was a semi-painful, semi-lurid memory, he had truly loved that car. But, after almost six years and ninety thousand miles of being driven hard and well, the car was starting to fall apart. The interior was trashed and worn, the paint was fading and chipped, and some major component in the engine would fail every two thousand miles or so, requiring costly and time-consuming repairs. And so, with a heavy heart, he had let it go, selling it for an absurdly large amount of money � more than three times the Kelly Blue Book for that model, year, and mileage � to a collector who wanted to own a genuine Jake Kingsley vehicle.

He had debated buying another Corvette to replace it but had reluctantly decided that another maintenance intensive sports car was not something he wanted to deal with at this stage of his life. After considerable deliberation over different makes, models, and styles of automobile, he finally decided he wanted a high-end luxury car, something that would haul ass if he wanted it to, but that would also have a reliable, low-maintenance engine, comfortable seating, and all the bells and whistles that someone with his income would expect from a motor vehicle.

He was behind the wheel of his choice now. It was a royal blue, 1989 BMW 750 iL. It was the top of the line model for BMW and it was loaded with virtually every accessory available. The sticker price, which Jake had paid in cash, had been sixty-four thousand dollars. It featured leather seats that were electrically adjustable and heated, a $2000 Blaupunkt sound system complete with twelve-CD changer and six speakers, and a twelve cylinder, five liter engine that produced three hundred horsepower and was capable of propelling the car to speeds of one hundred and seventy miles per hour. Not quite as fast as Matt's Maserati, but pretty damn close. He had picked the car up just two days before. The odometer was now showing ninety-three miles on it, more than half of which had been put on during this trip to Newport Beach. As Jake felt the smooth handling of the car, as he felt the barely restrained power of its engine, as he listened to the virtual absence of outside noise that the sound insulation gave him, he thought that maybe he could fall just as much in love with this car as with the Corvette.

He was a little nervous about the trip itself, however. He was on his way to the Gallahad Gardens Correctional Institute to visit Matt, who had been incarcerated there for a week now. Three days after returning home from their international tour, Matt had had his sentencing hearing before Judge Waters and officially received his punishment for the little incident back in November. He had gone in on May 15 and, assuming he did not get into any trouble (something that was doubtful, considering it was Matt they were talking about here), he would accrue one "good time day" for each actual day he served and be released on June 29. And though the GGCI, as it was known, was a privately run jail facility that was reputed to be worlds apart from the county facility Matt could have ended up in if not for the plea bargain, it was still a jail. Jake had been in jail three times in his life � once in Texarkana, once in New York City, and once in Cincinnati � and his memories were of orange suits, horrible food, bars on the doors and windows, guards who liked to thump on people with telephone books, and absolutely no privacy of any kind. He knew that Matt had to be miserable in there and Jake himself was not looking forward to entering such a stifling environment, even as a visitor.

He was on Highway 1, just outside of Newport Beach and just west of Costa Mesa. This part of the coast was very hilly and rugged. As the highway crested one of the hills, giving a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean, Jake found himself driving alongside an ornate wrought iron fence surrounded with shrubbery. The fence was about ten feet high and small signs every fifty feet or so proclaimed that there was no trespassing as this was private property. Since the turn-off to the entrance of the GGCI was supposed to be less than half a mile in front of him, Jake was forced to conclude that he was looking at the security fence for the facility. He found it strange that there was no razor wire atop the fence, no chain link beyond it. If someone wanted to escape from the facility it would be child's play to scale the fence.

Exactly half a mile from the first sighting of the fence, a paved access road led off to the northeast from Highway 1. A simple sign with an arrow proclaimed that this was the Gallahad Gardens Correctional Institute and that you should turn right if you wanted to go there. Jake turned right onto the road, which was lined with date palms on both sides. Another sign told him there was a guard booth ahead and that all visitors much check in and were subjected to search. His nervousness ramped up a few notches. He was entering a goddamn prison.

The first surprise of the day came when he stopped at the guard booth. It was a simple glass and steel booth with two men inside of it. They were not wearing the uniforms of prison guards, but were instead dressed in suits and ties. They carried no weapons upon them. Their faces were neatly groomed and their expressions were subservient instead of interrogating.

"Good morning, sir," one of them greeted Jake as he stopped and rolled down his window. "Are you here to visit one of our guests?"

"Your guests?" Jake asked.

"Yes, sir," the guard said. "If you'll forgive my impertinence, I do recognize you, sir. You are Jake Kingsley, correct?"

"Uh... yeah," Jake said. "I am."

"Then you would be here to visit Mr. Tisdale?"

"Yeah, that's right," Jake said.

"Very good," the guard said, tapping a few things on a computer screen. "I have you registered as a visitor today. You may proceed to the visitor parking area. Just follow this road and there will be signs in front of the main entrance."

"Uh... okay," Jake said.

The guard pushed a button and the gate slid open, allowing him access. Jake was puzzled. Weren't they going to look under his car with a mirror on a pole? Weren't they going to check his identification? Weren't they going to look through his trunk?

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Kingsley?" the guard asked.

"Uh... no," he said. "I guess not."

He dropped the BMW into first gear and pulled forward. The access road wound through a small grove of trees and then came out into the open ground on the other side of it. Now Jake was able to see the prison grounds for the first time. It looked absolutely nothing like a penal institution. The main building was a sprawling, eight-story complex of classic Spanish architecture. There were lots of windows on the building. It looked more like a luxury hotel than anything else. Surrounding the main building were acres of meticulously groomed lawns, gardens, tree groves, and even a putting green and a row of tennis courts. There were no gun towers anywhere that he could see, no guards roaming around with rifles.

The access road led him to a large circular driveway in front of the main entrance. A sign here read VISITORS AND NEWLY ARRIVING GUESTS, PLEASE WAIT HERE FOR VALET SERVICE.

"Freakin' valet service?" Jake muttered. "You gotta be shittin' me."

They weren't shitting him. The moment he stopped his car, two men dressed in the same style of suit as the gate guard emerged from a small booth beside the building. They walked over and opened Jake's door for him.

"Welcome to GGCI, Mr. Kingsley," the first man said politely. "I am Richard. The admission booth let us know you were on the way up."

"Uh... thanks," Jake said, slowly stepping out.

Richard handed him a claim ticket. "I'll park your car in the visitor lot for you," he said. "Daniel here will escort you inside to the visitor check-in desk."

"Sure," Jake said. "Sounds good."

"Nice car, Mr. Kingsley," Daniel said with obvious sincerity. "It appears to be new?"

"Yes, I just picked it up the other day."

"You have excellent taste in automobiles," Richard told him. "And don't worry. I'll take great care of it."

"Thanks," Jake said.

Richard climbed behind the wheel and drove off with Jake's car. When he was gone, Daniel said, "If you'll follow me, Mr. Kingsley."

Jake followed him. They went through a set of doors and entered a spacious lobby. Once again, the impression was that this was a luxury hotel instead of a jail. There were no bars on any of the windows, no security cameras anywhere, no one in a uniform of any kind. All of the male staff members in view wore suits and all of the female staff members wore business dresses. Jake was led past a marble fountain to a desk labeled VISITOR CHECK-IN. PLEASE HAVE PICTURE IDENTIFICATION READY. The desk was staffed by a young, attractive woman in her late twenties. She gave Jake a friendly, professional smile as he approached.

"I'll leave you here, Mr. Kingsley," Daniel said.

"Okay, thanks," Jake said.

Daniel gave a polite little nod and then retreated back the way he'd come. Jake looked back at the woman.

"Good morning, sir," she greeted. "Are you here to visit one of our guests?"

"Yes I am," Jake said. "I'm here to see Matt Tisdale."

"Of course," she said politely. "You're Mr. Kingsley. I thought I recognized you. May I see your identification please?"

He pulled out his wallet and removed his driver's license from it. He handed it across to her and she quickly typed his name into the computer before her desk. She handed it back and then typed something else. After peering at her screen for a moment she said, "Mr. Tisdale is currently in Lounge C. I'll have one of our counselors escort you to him."

"You mean... I'm going inside?" Jake asked. "Isn't there like a visiting area where we talk to each other through glass and all that?"

She chuckled a little. "No, sir," she said. "We don't have anything like that here. We have an open visitation policy for our guests." She punched a button on her phone, waited a few seconds, and then picked it up. "John," she said into it. "I have Mr. Kingsley here to visit Mr. Tisdale, who is currently in Lounge C. Would you escort him over there? Okay, thanks." She hung up the phone.

Jake was now feeling considerable anxiety. They wanted him to go inside the prison? To be in the same proximity as the convicts? Was that safe?

A mid-thirties Hispanic man suddenly appeared beside him. He was dressed in the requisite three-piece suit. He had a polite smile on his face. "Mr. Kingsley?" he said.

"Yes," Jake affirmed.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," John told him. "I've enjoyed your music for years."

"Thank you," Jake said.

"I'll take you to Mr. Tisdale. If you'll just follow me?"

"Sure," Jake said slowly.

John led him past the fountain again and to a doorway that was guarded by another suited counselor and a metal detection frame. Jake expected that they would make him empty his pockets out and then they would search him. They did no such thing. They simply had him walk through the metal detector and, when that triggered no alarm, John opened the door and led him into a lushly carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings.

"This is just too weird," Jake said as he followed behind.

They passed a bank of elevators, several offices, and several doors marked as storage or break room or things like that. Finally they came to a sliding glass door marked LOUNGE C. They walked through and Jake found himself looking at circular room about the size of a skating rink. Several pool tables, pinball machines, shuffleboard courts, and dart boards took up one side of the room. A bandstand, currently empty, stood on the other side. In the middle were wooden card tables of all shapes and sizes. There were thirty or so men that Jake was finally able to identify as prisoners in the room. They did not wear standard prison garb like orange jumpsuits or denim pants and shirts. Instead, they wore fashionable khaki slacks, tennis shoes, and handsome white polo shirts with GGCI stenciled on the breast. Many of the prisoners had visitors with them � dressed in standard street clothes like Jake � including women. Two or three of the suited staff skirted around the edge of the room, looking very subservient and non-threatening.

"This is a prison, right?" Jake had to ask John.

"It's a private correctional institute," John corrected. "We find the word 'prison' to be very offensive here."

"I see," Jake said, still tying to process it all.

John looked around for a few moments and finally spotted Matt near the far end of the room. He led Jake over to where his friend was playing a game of pool with three other men.

"I'll leave you now, Mr. Kingsley," John told him. "When you're ready to leave just have Mr. Tisdale lead you back to the door you came in through."

"Right," Jake said. "Thanks."

"Jake!" Matt said gladly, setting his cue stick down and walking over to greet him. "It's good to see you, brother! How the hell are you?"

"I'm good," Jake said, shaking with him. "How are you doing? It looks like you're doing some hard time here."

"Yeah," Matt said. "This place is something else, ain't it? Thank God I'm a rich motherfucker."

"Amen to that," one of fellow pool players said. The other two chuckled.

"Let me introduce you to the guys," Matt said, leading him over to the table. He pointed to a middle-aged man with graying hair. "Jake, this is Ernest Willington. He's a real estate developer here in Orange County."

"Nice to meet you," Jake said. "You look familiar to me."

Willington gave a chuckle. "You probably saw me on the news last year. It's nice to meet you, Jake."

"Ernie's the guy that got popped by the grand jury for bribing one of the county supervisors to get him to change a zoning law," Matt said.

"I told you, Matt," Ernest said with a humorous whisper and a slight jab of his elbow into Matt's side. "That was a campaign contribution. Fred just forgot to report it."

"I got them to change that zoning for you though, didn't I?" asked one of the other players, this one in his late thirties. He and Ernest both had a friendly laugh over this.

"And this," Matt said, indicating the man who had just spoken, "is Fred Basil, the county supervisor in question. He's doing some time for taking the bribe."

"Campaign contribution," Fred said with a grin. He turned to Jake. "Nice to meet you, Jake. I'm not much of a rock music fan, but your friend here is a breath of fresh air in this place."

"He does have a way of livening a place up, doesn't he?" Jake said.

Matt then pointed to a tall, skinny man in his early forties. "And this geeky looking motherfucker here," he said, "is none other than Bobby Smithson. Remember him from last year?"

"Oh yeah," Jake said, recognizing him now that he was looking at him. "I remember." Smithson had been the CEO of a major Orange County manufacturing corporation. The previous year he had been caught siphoning money from his company's pension fund into a private account in the Grand Caymans. In all, it was estimated that he had screwed his employees out of almost sixteen million dollars. He had pled guilty to grand theft and wire fraud and had been sentenced to a year in jail. And here he was, doing his time in this miserable place.

"It's nice to meet you, Jake," Smithson told him, shaking his hand. "Matt was telling me that you musicians don't have any sort of retirement fund."

"Uh... well... yeah, that's right," Jake said.

"Maybe I could help you guys set one up," Smithson said. "I have a lot of experience in that area."

Jake looked at him in disbelief for a moment and then all four of the prisoners started cracking up.

"Holy fucking shit, Smitty," Matt said, clapping him on the back. "That was a good one. Did you see the look on Jake's face when you said that shit?"

"Hey," said Smithson. "Who says I was kidding?"

This caused another round of laughter. This time, Jake reluctantly joined in.

"Let me finish kicking Smitty's ass here and then I'll show you my cell," Matt said.

"Sure," Jake said.

They were playing eightball and Matt already had most of the stripes in while Smitty had five of his solids still on the table. Matt quickly and efficiently sank his last two but didn't have a shot on the eightball. Smitty managed to sink one solid but then flubbed his next shot, causing the cue ball to drop into a corner pocket.

"That's your ass, boy," Matt told him as he retrieved the ball and placed it on the table. "Corner pocket," he said, pointing with his cue stick. Smitty nodded, resigned to his fate.

Matt lined up almost carelessly and shot the cue into the eight. It struck with an authoritative clack and the eight shot across the table where it dropped into the pocket dead center.

"Damn," Smitty said, shaking his head good naturedly.

"That's two grand you owe me now," Matt told him.

"Will you take a check?" Smitty asked, causing another round of laughter to erupt.

"All right then," Matt said, putting his cue back in a rack next to the table. "I'll catch you corrupt motherfuckers later."

All three of them told Jake they were glad to meet him and then began racking up a new game.

"Come on, Jake," Matt said. "Let me show you the misery I have to live in."

"Is it okay for me to go to your cell?" Jake asked.

"Hell yeah," Matt said. "I'm paying eighteen grand a week for this fuckin' place. They'd better let me have visitors. Follow me."

Jake followed him. They went to one of the side doors where one of the suited counselors was manning a check-in booth.

"Back up to your room, Mr. Tisdale?" he asked.

"Fuckin' aye," Matt said.

"Very good, sir," the counselor told him. He opened the door, revealing yet another hallway.

"It looks like they're treating you well," Jake observed as they walked.

"Yeah," Matt said with a shrug. "It beats the shit out of the Orange County jail, or the Texarkana jail. If you gotta do time, this is the way to do it."

"Do all of the guards wear suits here?"

"They don't like to be called 'guards'," Matt warned. "They're rehabilitating us, remember? They like it if you refer to them as counselors."

"I see," Jake said.

They reached an elevator and Matt pushed the call button. When it arrived, they stepped inside and he pushed the button for the sixth floor. The car rose smoothly and quickly upward. When it reached six, the doors slid open and they were standing before another "counselor" before another computer terminal. This one was vaguely Asian looking and only in his late twenties.

"Gene, my man!" Matt said, stepping out and holding out his right hand.

"What's up, Matt?" Gene replied, slapping his hand into Matt's. They gripped each other in several different ways and then slammed their fists together.

"My dick, like always," Matt replied. He turned to Jake. "This is Gene. He's the day shift counselor for this floor. He's the one that makes sure we hardened criminals stay in our cages."

"We have to beat Matt sometimes to keep him in line," Gene said. He held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Jake. I'm a big fan of Intemperance. Matt's been teaching me some stuff on the guitar."

"Well... uh, he's the one to learn from," Jake said.

"That ain't no shit," Gene agreed.

"Can you unlock my door for me, Gene?" Matt asked.

Gene reached down and pushed a button on his control panel. "Done," he said.

"Thanks, Gene," Matt said. "C'mon, Jake. Let's go check out my pad."

They walked down another carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings. Doors were spaced every thirty feet or so. They did not look like prison cell doors. There were no bars, no slots, no locking mechanisms. Instead, each one looked like a standard, everyday hotel door.

"This is F wing," Matt told him. "It's a little nicer than D and C wing, but not as nice as G and H wing."

"Who decides what wing you get to stay in?" Jake asked.

Matt rubbed his thumb and middle finger together � the universal sign for money. "That's what determines it," he said. "You get what you pay for."

"I see," Jake said.

They stopped at a door labeled 647. M. TISDALE was printed on a plaque below the door number. Matt reached down turned the doorknob, opening the door and leading Jake into his cell.

"Jesus Christ, Matt," Jake said as he got a look around. "This is a jail cell?"

"That's what they tell me," Matt said.

The room was nothing more nor less than a standard hotel suite, not as nice as the ones the band typically stayed in on tour, but much nicer than a standard room. There was at least twelve hundred square feet of living area. The door opened up onto a sitting room complete with a large screen television, stereo system, refrigerator, and leather furniture. A large window at the front of the room provided a view of the facility's front lawn, Highway 1 passing beyond it, and the Pacific Ocean beyond that.

"There's no kitchen in here," Matt said apologetically. "Cooking is not allowed in the rooms. Some fuckin' state law or something. But check out this bedroom."

He led Jake down a short hallway and into an impressive master suite. There was a king size, adjustable bed, another television set hanging from the wall, and a walk-in closet (which was full of nothing but khaki pants and GGCI polo shirts). Another doorway opened to a spacious bathroom complete with oversized tub and a glass walled shower.

"What do you think?" Matt asked when the tour was done and they went back into the sitting room.

"Let's just say that I'm appalled by the cruel and inhuman conditions you have to put up with in here. Should I start planning your escape?"

"Yeah," Matt said with a grin. "I'm not sure I can take much more of this." He walked over to the refrigerator. "You want a drink?"

"What do you got?" Jake asked.

"All the usual stuff. I got some Coronas, some Steinlager, some of those fruity fuckin' drinks that Kim likes."

"They let you have beer in here?" Jake said, astonished.

"Sure," he said. "There ain't no law against having booze in a penal institution. It's just the most of them don't let you have it. I also have rum, vodka, tequila, and some Jack up here in the liquor cabinet, plus all the standard mixers." He pointed to a set of closed doors above the refrigerator. "There's an icemaker in the fridge, so you can have it on the rocks if you want."

Jake was now beyond being surprised. "Sure," he said. "I'll have a Corona. I assume you have limes for it?"

"But of course," Matt said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out two bottles and a bowl of lime slices. He opened them with an opener stuck to the side of the refrigerator by a magnet, dropped in the limes, and then carried them over to the leather furniture.

Jake took one of the beers and sank down into a surprisingly comfortable armchair. "Well," he told Matt after taking a sip of his beer, "I certainly hope you're learning your lesson about violating the law."

"Yeah," Matt said with a chuckle. "I'm learning my lesson well in here. Hey, you hungry?"

"Uh... a little, I guess."

"They got some premo chow in this place. Let me get some up here." He picked up the phone next to the couch and dialed a number. "Gene? Matt. Hey, dude, how about having them send up an order of those buffalo chicken wings and some ranch dressing? And maybe an order of them deep fried calamari strips too." He listened for a moment. "Thanks, dude. Have 'em put a rush on it, will you? We're fuckin' starvin' up here." Another pause. "You the man, Gene." He hung up the phone.

"You have room service?" Jake said blandly.

"For eighteen grand a week? You bet your ass I got fuckin' room service."

Jake simply shook his head, pondering the American system of justice. While his father was fighting to keep common state prisoners from being treated like cattle or medical experiments, those with money were living in luxury prisons with room service and full service bars.

"So how are things on the outside?" Matt asked. "I saw on that Celebrity Insight show the other night that Nerdly is still engaged to that snatch he's been pounding. You haven't been able to talk him out of it yet?"

"It's not my place to talk Nerdly out of marrying anyone," Jake said. "He says he's in love, that he's found his soulmate. And now he wants to spend the rest of his life with her in a state of legally sanctioned cohabitation."

"Fuckin' love," Matt said with a shake of his head. "He's setting himself up to ruin his whole goddamn life, and probably a few future lives to boot."

Jake simply shrugged. "That's his right, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Matt said.

In fact, Jake had questioned Nerdly rather thoroughly about his engagement to Sharon. This had taken place while they'd still been out on the tour of Europe, on the flight from Paris to Marseille. It was during this conversation that Nerdly � his oldest friend � had convinced him that he wasn't feeling mere infatuation for Sharon, that he was in actual love with her, that he really did want to marry her, that he wanted nothing more out of life than to breed with her. His plan had been to fly to Las Vegas immediately upon their return to the United States and legalize their nuptials in the first chapel they came upon.

"At least I was able to talk him out of that quick wedding he was going for," Jake said to Matt.

"That was a stroke of genius on your part," Matt agreed, taking a long pull of his beer. "Telling him that his bitch would always resent him for the quick wedding."

"Well," Jake admitted, "part of that was to slow him down a little � that is true � but mostly I was being honest with him there. We all know that chicks live for the wedding, and if he were to give her the thirty dollar special in some sleazy chapel on the strip when he was a multi-millionaire who could afford her dream wedding, eventually Sharon would end up resenting him for it."

Matt shrugged this off as if it were unimportant, which, to him, it was. "Whatever your reasoning, you did good. Hopefully the extra time will let him have a few second thoughts before he destroys his life."

"He hasn't had them yet," Jake said. "The wedding is set for October 31 in the McAndrew's Park rose garden in downtown Heritage. I'm gonna be the best man. You, Coop, Darren, and Charlie are gonna be the groomsmen."

"Really?" Matt said, seemingly touched that the man he'd derided and teased ever since the first day he'd met him actually wanted him to be a groomsman.

"Really," Jake said. "And did I tell you that Nerdly is planning to convert to Judaism?"

Matt blinked. "Nerdly wants to become a Jew?" he said slowly.

"That's what he tells me," Jake confirmed. "He's been studying up on it ever since we came back from tour. He stopped eating pork, started reading the Torah, and he even got himself a yarmulke."

"What in the fuck is up with that shit?" Matt demanded. "Nerdly's a fuckin' atheist! He's told us ten thousand times that logic does not support the existence of an omnipotent deity!"

"Yes, he did say that," Jake agreed. "But apparently Sharon's parents are opposed to her marrying a man who is not Jewish."

"So he's gonna practice a religion he doesn't believe in just to marry this bitch?"

"I think it started out that way," Jake said. "But as he's studied up on the religion and everything associated with it, I think he started to get into it. He'll go on and on for hours about it when you talk to him now. I think he likes everything about it except for the part about there being a God. That's kind of where his worlds collide."

"He's a fuckin' nutcase," Matt said, shaking his head in wonder. "He's the one that should be locked up, not me."

"And I haven't even told you about their plans for the wedding yet," Jake said.

Matt looked at him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

Jake took a long drink of his beer and then lit a cigarette. He blew the smoke slowly across Matt's cell. "The ceremony," he said, "is going to be a combination of traditional Jewish wedding, with a few Christian influences, and..." Jake trailed off, unsure how to say this last part.

"And what?" Matt demanded.

"And... uh... Star Trek," he finally spit out.

Matt looked at him in disbelief. "Star Trek?"

"The Next Generation, to be exact. Apparently both he and Sharon are quite taken with that show. He's even planning to invite Patrick Stewart and LeVar Burton to the wedding."

"I'm afraid to ask," Matt said, "but what exactly takes place at a Star Trek, The Next Generation wedding?"

"It's pretty much the normal Jewish ceremony except for... uh... the way the wedding party dresses."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll be dressed as Star Trek characters," Jake told him. "Nerdly will be Captain Picard. Sharon will be Dr. Crusher. I'll be Commander Riker."

"He wants us to dress up as Star Trek characters?" Matt said in disbelief. "Is he fucking high? There is no way in hell I would ever do something like that."

"You'll do it," Jake said. "You know you will."

"I will not!" Matt said. "I'll be burned at the fuckin' stake before I dress up in some fucking science fiction outfit and pretend to be some asshole from a stupid ass show! That's humiliating!"

"You'll do it," Jake said. "Because if you don't, Nerdly will tell you that you don't have a hair on your ass for the rest of your life. And... he'll be right."

Matt was gritting his teeth now. "That motherfucker," he said. "He would do that, wouldn't he?"

"You know it."

Matt sighed in resignation. "Who will I have to dress as?"

"You get to be Worf," Jake told him.

This seemed to mollify Matt a little bit. "Well... at least I get to play the baddest ass motherfucker on the show."

"He thought you'd be pleased with his selection," Jake said.

"I'm not putting on any makeup though," Matt warned. "That is absolutely where I draw the fuckin' line."

"You won't have to wear the makeup," Jake assured him.

"All right," Matt said. "I'll tell him I'm in the next time I see him."

"There is one thing I'm a little worried about though," Jake said.

"What's that?"

"He's not planning on having her sign a prenup."

Matt looked at him as if he were joking. "No prenup? What is he? A fucking moron? He's not really stupid enough to marry some bitch without making her sign a prenup, is he?

"He is," Jake said. "He told me that since he and Sharon are 'compatible on the sub-atomic level', there is no need to worry about what might happen if they part ways. In his view, he and Sharon divorcing is 'as likely as general relativity being proven an unsound hypothesis'."

"That means unlikely, right?"

"Right."

"I think he's being na�ve," Matt said. "How does he know this Sharon bitch ain't getting set up to hose him? I mean, that Mindy Snow bitch fooled you, didn't she?"

"Yeah," Jake said sourly. "She did. For a while anyway."

"And you knew a thing or two about women when that happened. Nerdly don't know shit. He's bagged his share of bitches, of course, but only since he started playing in the band with us. He was a fuckin' virgin before we did that first gig at D Street West, remember?"

"I remember," Jake said. "He'd never even gotten his hand on a tit before that."

"Exactly," Matt said. "He's never earned a bitch on his own merits before. I don't think he knows the underhandedness and deceit your average bitch is capable of when it comes to latching onto a man with money and fame."

"I don't know," Jake said. "Helen and I spent a lot of time with Nerdly and Sharon when we were out on tour. It's not my impression that she's trying to put one over on him. I really think she loves him."

Matt rolled his eyes upward. "And you proclaim to love Helen, don't you?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "I do."

"And you're pretty sure she loves you? That she's not just acting the way you want her to because you're Jake Kingsley?"

"I know she's not," Jake said.

"And for what it's worth, I think you're right. I was around you two enough on tour to see that something clicked between you and her. But even with all that, if you were going to marry her, wouldn't you make her sign a prenup first?"

"Yes," Jake said without hesitation. "I wouldn't dream of tying the knot with her, or with any woman, without one."

"And that's my point," Matt said. "Nerdly's a fool if he goes without the prenup. No matter what they feel for each other now, what's gonna happen in two years, or in five years, if they end of falling out of love and splitting up?"

"She'll get half of his shit," Jake said. "That's what will happen."

There was a discreet knock at the door. Matt looked over at it and yelled, "Bring it on!"

The door opened and a young woman of about twenty entered the room carrying a large serving platter with a stainless steel cover over it. She was an unnatural blonde, very cute and well built. She wore a cocktail waitress outfit that showed off both her cleavage, and a gorgeous set of legs clad in fishnet stockings.

"Wassup, Laurie?" Matt hailed. "You're looking good enough to eat, as usual."

"Thanks, Matty," she said with a sexy smile. "How many more days?"

"Thirty-seven," he told her.

"Mmmm, I can't wait."

"Me either, baby," Matt said. "Me either. "You got some grub for us?"

"I sure do," she said brightly. "Where do you want it?"

"Right here is fine," he said, indicating the glass coffee table before them.

She set the tray down on the table and then glanced at Jake, her eyes moving appreciably up and down his body. She gave a polite little cough in Matt's direction.

"Oh... right," Matt said. "Sorry. Laurie, this is Jake Kingsley. Jake, Laurie Jenkins. She not a counselor. She's on the kitchen staff. She delivers the room service orders and waits the tables at lunch and dinner."

"Nice to meet you, Jake," she said in a sultry voice. "I love your music."

"Thanks," Jake said. "And it's nice to meet you as well."

"Are you gonna be at Matt's getting out party?" she asked him.

Jake shrugged. As of yet, he had not been invited to such a party. "I'm sure I will," he said.

"Mmmm, perfect," she said. "Now I really can't wait."

"Uh... well, actually," Matt said. "Jake will be there, but he won't be involved in that part of the party."

"He won't?" she said, disappointed.

"No," Matt said. "He's one of those freaks who are into monogamy."

"Oh..." she said, as if she didn't quite believe that. "I see. Well, keep it in mind though, huh Jake?"

"Sure," Jake said. "I'll do that."

"Well, I'd better get going, guys. Enjoy your appetizers."

They said their goodbyes to her and she went out the door.

"What was that all about?" Jake asked. "Are you fucking one of the staff members while you're in jail?"

"No, you can't fuck 'em while you're in," Matt told him. "It's against the rules."

"So there are some rules here?"

"A few," Matt said. "You can't leave, you can't fight, you can't do any drugs, and you can't have sex with any of the staff members. Those are the big ones. You get caught doing any of that shit and they kick your ass out and you end up in the county jail system."

"I guess that would be a good motivation," Jake had to admit. "So you're setting up a date with her for when you get out?"

"Yeah," he said, lifting the cover from the serving tray. A fragrant cloud of steam billowed up, revealing a tray of miniature chicken wings smothered in potent red sauce and another tray of deep fried calamari strips. He set the cover aside and picked up a wing, which he dipped in a bowl of ranch dressing. "She's got the major hots for me and she also wants to try it with another chick. So I'm setting up a threesome between me, her, and Kim for when I get out."

"Does Kim know about this?" Jake asked.

"Sure," Matt said. "Laurie was in here the other day when Kim and I were fucking on the couch. We let her watch."

"She... watched you and Kim have sex? Here in your cell?"

"Yeah," Matt said. "It got her really hot too. She pulled up her little skirt and stuck her hand down the front of those fishnet stockings and just played with her pussy the whole time. She fuckin' came right there next to the coffee table. After we were done, Kim licked her fingers for her and then tongue kissed her for a couple of minutes." He shrugged and took a big bite out of his chicken wing. "It was pretty cool," he said around a mouthful of spicy chicken meat.

Jake shook his head. "Like I said before, Matt," he said. "The absolute hell you must be enduring in here."

"Yeah," Matt said, taking a swig of beer to wash his food down. "Prison truly sucks, man. Watch what you do out there. You don't want to end up in a place like this."

Jake left the GGCI shortly after one o'clock. He drove home, parked his BMW in the garage, and then went inside where he took off his clothes and slept off the four beers he'd consumed in Matt's jail cell. Elsa woke him up at four thirty. He took a quick shower, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and then a mixed a drink in his upstairs bar. He carried it out to his deck to enjoy it with a cigarette.

When he walked out onto the deck to light up he saw that Gerald and Delilah, Elsa's two grandchildren, were frolicking happily in his swimming pool. Now that the warm weather of approaching summer was upon the Los Angeles basin, the two of them were frequent visitors to his home. Jake didn't mind. They were both good kids, intelligent and full of spunk. He loved to listen to them talk as they both used a vocabulary full of American inner-city slang spoken with a distinct British accent. He descended the stairs down to the pool and set his drink down on one of the tables. Gerald, who had been trying to stand up on one of the pool's rafts, was the first to see him.

"Jake!" he greeted. "What time is it with you, my man?"

"Time for a drink, like always," Jake told him.

"I heard you went to go visit your homey in the joint," Gerald said.

"Yep," Jake agreed. "It was a horrible place. You should see the conditions he's forced to live in."

"Did you tell him not to drop the soap in the shower?" Gerald asked.

"Gerald," the seventeen-year-old Delilah cut in, "if Nana be hearin' you say that, she'd be upside your head hard enough to slap them nappies right out of it."

"She would not!" the fifteen-year-old Gerald disagreed. "Everyone be knowin' what goes on in the joint."

"A lot more than that goes on in there, Gerald," Jake warned. "Trust me when I say you don't ever wanna find out."

"I ain't never goin' in the joint, homey," Gerald proclaimed. "Ain't no way they're ever gonna take me down!"

"What they gonna take you down for?" Delilah asked him. "You a nerd! You all in the computer club and on the soccer team. They gonna get you for not rewinding your movies before you take 'em back?"

"Shut up, Delilah!" Gerald shouted angrily. He, like any fifteen-year-old male, did not like having his street cred questioned.

Delilah didn't push the issue. She knew she'd slam dunked that one. "Watch this, Jake," she said, getting out of the pool and mounting the diving board. She took three steps, bounced once on the end, and executed a pretty respectable one and a half somersault dive, leaving very little splash as she entered the water. Her brown body glided along the bottom of the pool before breaking the surface near the shallow end.

"Nice dive," Jake told her, marginally impressed. The first time she'd come over to his house to swim she'd been afraid to even jump off the diving board.

"I'm thinking about joining the dive team when I get to college next year," she said.

"I'd go for it if I were you," Jake said. "You got what it takes, hon."

Delilah grinned, pleased with his praise.

"Hey, Jake," Gerald said. "You run into Bigg-G down at the record company yet?"

Bigg-G was a rapper that National Records had signed three years ago. His first album had gone mostly unnoticed, selling just enough for the A&R department to authorize a second album. The second album was currently the best selling rap album of the past five years, selling huge numbers across multiple demographics. Blacks, whites, and Mexicans from grammar school age to college age were snapping the album up in droves. Jake had never met Bigg-G, did not even know what he looked like (he wasn't even sure what ethnicity the rapper was), and had never heard a single one of his tunes, as he did not consider rap to be actual music. He had, however, promised Gerald and Delilah that he would make an attempt to score a couple of autographed photos of Bigg-G for them if he had occasion to run into him.

"I haven't been down to the National Building since I got back from tour," Jake told him.

"Aww man," Gerald cried. "Well when you gonna be goin' down there?"

"Probably soon," Jake said, finishing up his smoke and crushing it out in an ashtray. "In fact, I'm having a meeting with my accountant and my manager in about ten minutes, so maybe they'll give me a reason to go there."

"That'd be badass if you could score that for us, Jake," Gerald said.

"Totally badass," Delilah agreed, unable to hide her excitement at the very thought.

"I'll see what I can do," he promised again. "Meanwhile, I guess I'd better go make myself presentable for my meeting."

He left the two kids in the pool and went back upstairs to his bedroom, where he brushed his teeth and combed his hair a little bit. By the time he made it back down to the lower level of the house, Jill, his accountant, and Pauline were waiting for him in what passed as his office. Jill had flown down from Heritage last night and she and Pauline had spent the day going over his financial picture, auditing each other, and putting things into easily digestible reports for his perusal. It would be the first such report for him this year, as he'd had to skip the usual mid-January meeting because of the tour.

Jill was dressed, as always when engaged in business, in a dark colored business dress. Her thick glasses were perched authoritatively on her face and her hair was in a tight bun. Pauline was dressed professionally as well, but her attire was much more flattering and fashionable, accenting her feminine charms instead of concealing them.

Jake greeted the two women and offered them drinks. They both declined. They sat down at his desk and both of them opened briefcases and began to pull documents from them. Jake stifled a yawn and spent a few moments telling them about his visit to Matt at the GGCI. He kept the details as PG-13 as he could in deference to Jill's prudish sensibilities.

"You're not making this up?" Pauline asked when he was done with the narrative.

"Not a single word," Jake assured her.

She shook her head in disbelief and consternation. "He's not going to learn a thing from this whole debacle," she said. "He's not being punished at all. He's staying in a luxury hotel with maid service."

Jake simply shrugged. "What can you do?" he asked. "Matt is Matt. He goes through his life just lucking into everything and never managing to get hurt from his mistakes."

"I find this whole thing appalling," Jill said. "A jail where they let you have beer? Where you can have... you know... in your room whenever you want to? Where you have room service? And he gets to do his time there just because he has money? He could've killed someone when he ran from those police and this is how they punish him?"

"I know," Jake said. "Life in America, right? Why don't we change the subject now? You two have been shut up in Pauline's office all the livelong day. What did you find out about me? Am I still rich?"

"Despite all of your attempts to whittle your money away on trivial pursuits," Jill said, "yes, you're still rich." She shook her head at him. "I can't believe you spent sixty-four thousand dollars for a car, Jake. A car! You can buy a house on ten acres of property in some parts of California for sixty-four thousand dollars."

"Ten acres of property doesn't go from zero to sixty in 3.8 seconds," Jake said, as if that explained everything.

"A car is a means of getting from one place to another," Jill told him. "I own a Honda Accord � a reliable, safe, fuel efficient vehicle that does the primary job of a car quite well. I bought it used when it was a year old so that the original owner was the one to eat the biggest chunk of depreciation. For this car, I paid eleven thousand dollars."

"Yes," Jake said, "but you're an accountant � a member of the most boring group of people on Earth. You're expected to be cheap and worry about things like who eats the first year's depreciation and how many miles per gallon you get. I'm a rich rock star who has an image to maintain. If people found out I was driving a Honda Accord � hell, if they found out I'd even been within ten feet of a Honda Accord � I would never sell another album as long as I lived."

Strangely, this seemed to make sense to Jill. "Oh," she said. "So you're saying that the money you spend on your automobile has a direct effect on the number of albums your band sells?"

"Uh... yeah," Jake said. "In a way, yes."

She nodded. "I wonder if I could find a way to make that car a write-off then."

"You do what you do," he told her. "That's why I pay you as much as I do. Just remember, if I get audited, your name is on the line too."

"Well, of course," she said. "In any case, despite your lavish spending habits while you were abroad on that last tour..."

"Hey now," Jake said. "I never once dressed as a broad on that last tour."

Pauline chuckled but Jill didn't get the joke. "Excuse me?" she said.

"Never mind, my twin," Jake told her. "Please continue."

"Right," she said, still puzzling over it. "So, despite your spending of eighty-three thousand, six hundred and twelve dollars and seventeen cents of your own money while abroad, the tour ultimately did just as expected to your primary revenue stream."

"So album sales went up?" Jake asked.

"Correct," Jill said. "Pauline has the exact figure with her."

Pauline referenced one of the papers before her. "International sales of every Intemperance album went through the roof in every country that you visited. If you look at this graph here..."

"I don't really want to look at the graph," Jake said with a shake of his head. "Just give me the condensed version."

"Right," Pauline said. "In New Zealand and Australia, it started about three weeks before your arrival with increased sales of It's In The Book and In Action. These sales slowly went up as the time for the dates appeared and then shot up suddenly after your appearances there. Following this, there was a second wave that consisted of massive sales of every other Intemperance album in reverse chronological order."

"So," Jake said, "they started to buy the live album and our studio piece when the concerts were announced, bought them like mad after our shows, and then started buying up the older stuff one by one."

"Exactly," Pauline said. "It's the same pattern in every country you visited, although it was most dramatic in Japan and Taiwan. In all, during the course of your tour and continuing through the first of this month, Intemperance has sold a combined total of seven million studio albums and two million copies of In Action internationally. And this trend, though dying down a bit, is still going on today."

"So we're raking in a buttload on foreign sales," Jake summarized.

"Exactly how I would have put it," Jill said.

"These figures do not include domestic sales," Pauline said. "Now with the studio albums, you're still enjoying a steady stream of sales but nothing dramatic. In Action, however, is selling like hotcakes all across the country. It's been out for less than six months now and it's coming up on triple platinum domestically. People love it. And though Crow would never admit it, one of the main reasons for the high sales is the three previously unrecorded tunes you put on there. The radio stations are playing all three of them to death, especially This Life We Live and Life Of Toil. Both of those have been the most requested tunes in the nation for twelve straight weeks now."

"What about the video of In Action?" Jake asked. "How's that doing?"

"Pretty well," Pauline said. "I think we're being hamstrung a little by the fact that people can just go into a store and rent the video, but sales have topped nine hundred thousand as of this morning."

"Sweet," Jake said.

"And that," Jill said, "coupled with the endorsement fee you got from Gibson Guitars at the start of the tour, minus the money you've spent of late on things like airplanes and loans to flight schools and cars and living the good life abroad, has pushed your net worth into the vicinity of $3.4 million. I have the exact figure here if you're..."

"No, that's cool," Jake said. "So I'm still a rich bastard, right?"

"Well... you're rich, Jake," Jill told him. "That is true, but you're not quite as rich as you seem to think you are."

"What do you mean?" Jake asked her.

"Not all of that net worth is immediately liquid, you understand? A good chunk of it is in this house you own and in your other assets like your vehicles, your furnishings, your car, and your musical instrument collection. That Les Paul guitar you have, for instance, is worth nearly thirty thousand dollars alone. At least that's what it's insured for. Your wine collection is worth seventy-two thousand dollars."

"I understand," Jake said. "What's my house worth these days?"

"The house is now appraised at $1.1 million, but that is just a sterile figure based on comparable sales in the neighborhood. In reality, you could easily get a million and a half, maybe even as much as $1.7 million simply because this is Jake Kingsley's house. The fact that you own it and lived in it increases its value."

"So you're saying that one point five million of that three point four of my net worth is this house alone?" Jake asked.

"No," she said. "The figure I used to represent the value of your house in your total net worth is not what the house is worth, but how much equity you have in it. If you were to liquefy this particular asset, you would still have to pay the bank what you owe them. The equity is the difference between what you owe and how much you could sell the house for."

"I know what equity is," Jake said, irritated. "I'm not a complete idiot on financial matters."

"I'm sorry," Jill said. "I wasn't trying to be insulting."

"It's okay," Jake said. "So how much equity do I have in the house?"

"It's a considerable amount," she told him. "You originally purchased it for $850.000. You put down twenty percent and financed the rest, which was $683,235 � that includes the closing costs, of course."

"Of course," Jake said.

"Per your instructions, I've been paying double the required amount on the mortgage each month. That was a good move. The extra $4400.50 I pay each month goes directly to reducing the principal. So, in the twenty-six months since escrow closed, those extra payments reduced the principal by $114,413. The regular mortgage payments are, unfortunately, going mostly to interest at this stage of the game, but they reduced the principal another $11,212."

Jake's head was starting to spin from all the figures being thrown at him. "Okay, so what's the bottom line?" he asked.

"The bottom line is that the remaining principal on your loan is $557,610. That is how much you would have to pay the bank if you sold the house. Since the house is worth approximately $1.5 million, that means you have $942,390 in equity."

"So, you're saying like a quarter of my net worth is represented by this house?"

"Twenty-eight percent, actually," Jill said, "but, in general, yes, that's the point I'm trying to make. In addition to the twenty-eight percent for the house, another eight percent is represented by your personal belongings � your car, your airplane, your guitars, your clothes, the paintings on your wall, your wine collection � anything that you actually own that is not part of the house if it were sold. It all adds up to roughly $272,000."

"I have $272,000 worth of shit?" Jake asked, surprised at the amount.

"That is correct," she said. "So what we're looking at is that a full thirty-six percent of your net worth is composed of real estate and personal property. This means that $1,224,000 of that $3.4 million I mentioned is money that cannot be spent at all because it resides in property. The only way to tap into it is to sell the property in question. And of the $2.8 million that remains, $1.1 million of it is invested in the stock market."

"$1.1 million?" Jake asked. "I thought I only authorized you to invest thirty percent of my free and clear income there."

"Jake," Pauline said, "that is how much she invests. She's picked some very good stocks for you. You're getting well over a twenty percent return on that investment."

"Really?" Jake asked.

"Don't you pay attention when I go over your investment portfolio with you?" Jill asked him, exasperated.

"Well... yeah... but... you know."

"I've got you heavily invested in Microsoft, Intel, IBM, and several other technology stocks that have gone through the roof since the start of this personal computer craze. Of course, the bulk of the stock investments are in the S&P 500, which is a relatively safe investment with good long term return potential, otherwise your overall stock return would have been closer to forty percent."

"Wow," Jake said. He was only vaguely aware of what the S&P 500 actually was. "Am I paying you enough?"

"We'll get to that later," Jill said. "So you have $1.1 million invested in stocks and growing quite nicely there, thank you very much. Another $500,000 is tied up in various tax shelters I've set up for you � the windmill project, some overseas investment, monthly support obligations to those charities you picked for me, donation obligations to the Heritage Philharmonic and the CSUH and the Heritage Community College music departments. The rest of your money, which equals about $1.2 million, currently, is your actual spending money. I keep it mostly in treasury bills, treasury notes, and certificates of deposit for safe holding. I keep $100,000 in your personal bank account and replenish it from the CDs as you spend. I also keep another account open to pay for all of your monthly obligations. These obligations are your mortgage, Elsa's salary, my salary, your household grocery and alcohol budget, the loan payments and other recurring expenses involving your airplane, your car insurance, your health insurance, your property tax, your utilities, your gardening and pool service, and various other recurring debts. As of this moment, the monthly outgoing amount from this account is $21,200."

Jake whistled. "That is a lot," he admitted.

"It's $254,000 a year," Jill told him. "And yes, it is a lot. Like with your personal spending account, I replenish the recurring obligations account once a month from the CDs and adjust the amount as you acquire new obligations."

"Okay," Jake said, not quite sure where she was going with this.

He soon found out. "My point to this whole discussion is to talk about your personal spending," Jill said. "Now that you have a breakdown of your outgoing obligations and where your money is actually stored, I'm hoping that maybe you'll think twice before making some of these purchases you make."

"You mean like the car?" Jake asked.

"The car, the luxury hotels abroad, the first class air travel all over the European continent, the sixteen thousand dollars worth of French wine, the twenty thousand dollar check you wrote to Helen's father for that down payment on a new plane, the eighteen thousand dollar Lear Jet charters. These are the things that are going to get you into trouble, Jake. You're eating pretty heavily into your liquid assets. Do you know how much you spent out of your personal account last year?"

"No," Jake said, "but I'm sure you do."

"I do," she said. "You spent $212,567 during the course of last year. And you didn't even buy a car that year. You add together the $254,000 paid out from the recurring obligations account, and we're talking... $466,567."

"How much money did I make, though?" Jake asked.

She sighed. They had had this discussion before. "You know the answer to that," she said. "You signed your tax forms, after all. After taxes were paid, you made $1,233,000."

"So I made $1.2 million and I spent almost half a million. Doesn't that leave me with about seven hundred grand left over?"

"Yes, Jake," she said. "It does."

"So I'm not spending more than I make, right?"

"Not yet, you're not," she said. "But you're moving in that direction. Your personal spending goes up every year. So far this year, you've already spent more than $145,000 and it's only May. You keep going at this rate and you're sure to break three hundred thousand by the end of the year."

"But I'm also going to pull in about a million and a half of free and clear profit, right?"

Jill lowered her head to the desk for a few moments and took a deep breath. She always got frustrated by Jake's flippant attitude about money. "Look, Jake," she said when she finally brought her head back up, "I understand that right now you're making much more money than you're spending. But the trend I'm looking at here is that eventually your spending will surpass your yearly income. This will happen even faster if � God forbid � you have a year where you don't have a successful album or where you don't go out on tour. If something like that occurs, your income will be drastically reduced but your spending will not. At that point you'll be in a negative spiral and I'll be forced to start selling off the T-bills, the T-notes, and the CDs before they mature. If it keeps up, I'll be forced to start selling off stocks � something I would really hate to do with the market the way it is right now. You're living a lifestyle that you simply cannot maintain forever."

"So what is your suggestion?" Jake asked. "Buy Honda Accords? Fire Elsa? Get rid of my airplane?"

"You don't have to go quite that far," she said. "You just need to learn not to be so extravagant in your spending. You're not as rich as you think you are. You're spending money like someone who has twenty million in net worth. Just try to avoid buying multiple big ticket items in one tax year. Wait a year between major purchases."

Jake nodded, feeling like he did when the dentist told him to floss more or the doctor told him not to smoke and drink so much � things he had no intention of actually changing. He gave Jill the same answer he gave the dentist and the doctor. "I'll see what I can do, doc."

"Doc?" she said.

"I mean Jill," he corrected with a grin. "I'll try to change my evil ways. One question though."

"What's that?"

"What if my income were to significantly increase? Would you feel better about me spending like mad?"

"I'm sure I would," she said. "Are you expecting your income to significantly increase?"

"The next album we release will fulfill our contractual obligations to National. After that, we're wide open to renegotiation."

"That is true," Pauline had to agree.

"And the terms of your next contract will be better?" Jill asked.

"As long as we finish up on top," Jake said, "there will be a bidding war over who gets to sign us next."

"Interesting," Jill said. "I'll adjust my nagging accordingly when that happens."

"Thanks," Jake said. "Oh, and there's one other thing you can do for me."

"What's that?"

"Can you do some research on the ins and outs of Americans buying property in New Zealand?"

"New Zealand?" she asked. "We were just talking about fiscal responsibility and now you want to buy land in New Zealand."

"I liked it there," Jake said. "I want to own a summer place eventually. See what's available in the Christchurch area on the South Island, something just outside the city itself, up in the hills, near the airport if possible. And if there's a view of either the city or the ocean or both, so much the better."

"You're serious about this?" Jill asked.

"I've never been more serious," he said. "Real estate's an investment, isn't it?"

"Well... yes, but..."

"I'm not gonna buy it this year," he said. "I just want to know if it's possible and, if so, what the base prices for land and dwelling are."

"All right," she said with a sigh. "I'll see what I can find out."

"And how about a five hundred dollar a month raise for you?" he suggested next. "I think you deserve it."

"Well... I'm not going to argue with you on that one."

"Done," he said. "Pencil it in, effective immediately and retroactive to the first of the year."

She smiled. "Thanks, Jake."

"No need to thank me," he said. "You earned it."

"Any more financial stuff to go over with him?" Pauline asked next.

"Usually we give him a breakdown of his portfolio, how it performed over the last quarter, and what the projections are for the next quarter," Jill said. "After that, we give him our audit results on each other."

"All of that stock stuff is like Latin to me," Jake said. "Why don't we skip that part?"

"What about the audit results?" Jill asked.

"Pauline," Jake said, turning to her, "Is Jill screwing me in any way?"

"No," she said. "She's not."

"And Jill, is Pauline screwing me in any way?"

"No," Jill said with a little shake of the head. "She's not."

"Is National doing anything funny with the revenue stream?" he asked next.

"No," Jill said, "they seem to be abiding to the letter of the contract. The random audits we do keep them honest."

"Very good," Jake said. "And now here's the hard part. Are the two of you conspiring with each other to screw me and siphon my funds into Swiss accounts for your own use and pleasure?"

Jill looked shocked at the very suggestion. Pauline, however, simply gave another chuckle. "No, Jake," she said. "We're not doing that."

"Well all right then," Jake said. "I guess that covers the audit, doesn't it?"

"I guess so," Pauline said. "Now I have a few things I need to talk to you about."

"Lay 'em on me, sis," he said. "But make it fast. Dinner is in twenty minutes."

"Right," she said. "The first thing is your plan to appear in Celia Valdez's wedding."

"What about it?"

"It's no longer a secret. Someone tipped the LA Times' entertainment department that Jake Kingsley will be at Martha's Vineyard on June 15 and he will sing a song he composed especially for the occasion."

"Who told them?" Jake asked.

"Well... didn't you tell me at one point that only Greg Oldfellow and Celia herself knew about it?"

"Yes, that was my understanding."

"Draw your own conclusions, but I'm thinking it must've been one of them."

"Hmm," Jake said thoughtfully. "I wonder why they would do something like that."

"I don't know," Pauline said. "We are starting to get some fallout from several directions on this one. I'm starting to get calls from the usual gaggle of columnists asking me to confirm or deny the rumor. So far, I've done neither. I wanted to wait for your input first."

"Keep no-commenting for now," Jake told her. "I'll talk to Celia soon and see what her take on this is."

"Sounds good, but you'd better do it quick. They're getting antsy. The other direction I'm getting feedback from is Crow and Doolittle and their merry men. They asked me for the same confirmation or denial and I told them I don't know anything. They then told me to tell you that any live performance without their permission could be construed as a breach of contract."

"What's our legal standing on this?" Jake asked.

"It's kind of in a gray area," she said. "If you were to go up there and perform copywrited material � either your own or someone else's � you would indeed be in breach of contract. However, since you're planning on performing a song you wrote for the occasion... well... that's not copywrited material, nor is it owned by National as long as you haven't actually submitted it to them in recorded form. You could make a case that such a performance � as long as you weren't paid for it � would not constitute a breach of contract."

"You could make a case?" Jake asked. "Would it be a defensible position?"

"It's hard to tell," she said. "There's really no precedent set for this particular situation. I'll tell you what I think would happen though."

"What's that?"

"I think they'll bluster and threaten and try to intimidate if you go forth with the performance at the wedding, but in the end, they'll conclude that it's really not an issue worth fighting over and drop it."

"That's kind of what I think too," Jake said. "I'm going to do it. I've already got most of the song perfected."

"What's it called?" Pauline asked.

"The Start Of The Journey," he told her.

"The journey being marriage?"

"You guessed it," he said. "It's a soft, gentle, ballad piece set up to sound best with just my voice and my acoustic guitar. It's very un-Intemperance-like, both in music and lyrics."

"It sounds nice," Pauline said. "And I wouldn't worry too much about National's reaction. If you do a good job and the press likes your song, they won't push very hard because the media will make them out to be a bunch of crybaby control freaks."

"They are a bunch of crybaby control freaks," Jake said.

"True, but they don't want the public realizing that."

"Good point," he said.

"Next item," she said. "This one's a little stickier."

"How sticky?" he asked.

"It's Darren," she said. "I went and visited him pretty regularly while you guys were out on tour."

"Is he getting worse?" Jake asked.

"No," she said. "He's getting better."

"Really?" Jake asked.

"He's put on weight and it looks like he might've slowed down on the painkillers and the valium and the muscle relaxers he's been popping. He's been showing up regularly for his physical therapy appointments and he seems to be regaining some of his strength."

"No shit," Jake said. "What got him into gear?"

"He wants his job back," she said.

"Oh," Jake said slowly. "I see."

She nodded. "I know how you feel about it. Charlie's kind of strange, but..."

"He's more than strange," Jake said. "He's a fruitcake to the tenth degree."

"Right," she said, "but, as you've pointed out many times, he's a better bass player than Darren and he's more reliable. Quite frankly, I'm concerned about Darren returning to the band. He's shown us time and time again that he has a problem with the drugs. He can get himself clean for awhile � God knows he's done that more than once � but he always tends to relapse, usually at the worst possible time."

"Yeah," Jake said. "I know."

"He's hoping to be strong enough by the time Matt gets out of jail to go to his release party. At that point he plans to announce that he's ready to return to the band. Coop and Matt will both support him as long as he's physically able to stand up to the rigors of rehearsal and performance. What we need to figure out, is where Bill stands on this issue and where you and I stand on it."

"I'm in favor of keeping Charlie," Jake said.

"I figured that's what you would say," she said. "That's pretty much how I feel as well."

"So what are we going to do?" Jake wanted to know.

"I don't know yet," she said. "It's nothing we need to lose sleep over just yet. Maybe he won't have enough strength when the time comes. Maybe Matt will surprise us and want to keep Charlie too. Maybe Coop will."

"I doubt it," Jake said.

"Me too, but let's just put that on the wait-and-see list for now. We'll deal with the situation when we have to."

"All right," Jake said. "Anything else?"

"Just these," she said, reaching into her briefcase and pulling out a large brown envelope that was bulging with its contents. She set it down on the desk before him. "Four months worth of fan mail. About three hundred letters in all."

"Cool," Jake said, taking it and setting it atop his computer monitor. Reading fan mail was one of the pleasures of his job. He had always made it a point to read each and every letter sent to him, although he rarely had the time to personally answer more than one out of fifty. "This will give me something to do over the next few days. Help build my ego up."

"Like it really needs that," Pauline said with a grin.

"Not nice, sis," he told her. "Not nice at all." He looked at the clock on the wall. "It's almost dinner time. Anyone up for a pre-dinner cocktail?"

"I'm up for it," Pauline said.

"Me too," Jill agreed. Though she was almost a complete teetotaler at home, she tended to imbibe when visiting Los Angeles and her most lucrative client. After all, when in Rome...

Elsa had prepared for them an extra-spicy batch of Louisiana jambalaya. She served it with freshly baked French bread, lots of napkins, and icy cold bottles of Rolling Rock beer. Jake and his two guests dug in heartily, each of them eating no less than two bowls of the fragrant stew that was a combination of chicken, spicy sausage, shrimp, rice, and various vegetables.

"This is wonderful," Jill proclaimed, wiping a sheen of sweat that had formed on her forehead because of the jambalaya's bite. "I can't believe I've never tried this before."

"Keep drinking the beer," suggested Pauline, who was sweating just as badly. "It keeps your mouth from actually combusting."

They kept drinking the beer. Elsa came through at one point to refresh their bread and beer supply. Seeing her, Jake was reminded of a promise he'd made to her grandchildren.

"Hey, Pauline," he said. "You spend more time over at National than I do."

"True," she agreed. "What about it?"

"What do you know about Bigg-G?"

"The rapper?" she said with a shrug. "Not a lot. What do want to know?"

"I promised Gerald and Delilah I'd try to get some autographs for them. I heard he was working on his next album these days. Is that true?"

"It is true," she said. "I've never met him myself so I don't know a lot about him. You know who does, though?"

"Who?"

"Bill," she said. "They're buddies."

Jake looked at her in disbelief. "Nerdly is buddies with a rapper?" he asked.

She nodded. "The two of them are like this," she said, holding her index and middle finger crossed.

"Jesus," Jake said. "Isn't that like the final sign of the apocalypse?"

"It may very well be," Pauline said with a laugh.

"How do they know each other?" Jake asked.

"How else?" she asked. "Bill and Sharon are at the studio every day working with anyone who happens to be recording anything. Bigg-G is recording right now and Bill has been helping him set his sound levels and mix the final tracks."

"No shit?"

"No shit," she confirmed. "You should call Bill and see what he can set up for you."

"I think I'll do that," Jake said, still trying to picture Nerdly and Bigg-G hanging out.

After dinner, the two women climbed back into a limo, both of them more than a little tipsy. Jill would be going back to the Hollywood Hilton, where Jake always put her up when she was in town. Another limo would pick her up in the morning to take her to the airport and her first class flight back to Heritage. Pauline would go to her own home where her plans were to have a few more drinks and then maybe call up Steve Gordon, a golf pro she'd met a few months before while taking lessons. Steve was dumb, a horrible conversationalist, and terribly conceited, but he was also extremely attractive, pretty good in bed, and he almost always came over when she called and then left immediately after the deed was done. That was what Pauline was looking for in a relationship these days.

Jake watched the limo disappear and then went back into the house. He made a trip to his wine cellar and, after some internal debate, selected a bottle of 1978 Cabernet Sauvignon from his collection. He wiped the dust off the bottle and then carried it back upstairs to his office. He opened it with a corkscrew he kept in his desk and poured a healthy amount into a wine glass he'd snagged from the kitchen on the way through. He had a sip, smiling at the smoothness of the seventy-five dollar a bottle vintage, lit a cigarette, and then reached in the large envelop and began going through his fan mail.

Contrary to popular belief, most famous musicians did not employ secretaries or assistants to open their fan mail for them. The process of reading what people thought about you � whether it was good or bad � was not really a chore, it was a pleasure. And so it was with relish that Jake dug in and opened the first letter.

It was a brief one, from a male fan in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The letter was signed Tim Cordoza. Tim started off by telling Jake how much he loved the way Jake played and the way he sang. He then asked a few questions about Jake's musical and vocal training. He ended the letter by telling Jake to keep rocking. In all, pretty typical of correspondence. Had Jake been in a different mood, he might have penned a brief reply to Tim Cordoza, just a quick note with enough details in it so Cordoza would know it was not a form letter. Instead, he wanted to get on with some more letter reading so he dropped it in the trash. Sometimes he felt bad about throwing his fans' letters away after reading them, but, in reality, there was nothing else to do with them. If he stored them, he would quickly amass thousands and they would be cluttering up his office.

He pulled another envelope out and opened it up. He began to read. It was pretty much the same theme as the first, although with a lot more misspellings and bad grammar. That too was fairly typical. Though many of Jake's fans were college students and college educated professionals, many were also high school students, high school drop-outs, and blue collar workers. Jake interpreted the writing the best he could, figured out that the overwhelming theme was positive, and dropped the letter and its envelope into the trash.

He continued to read, sipping wine and smoking cigarettes all the while. About six letters in, he came across another that was fairly typical. It was someone named Robert and he had pegged Jake as somewhat of an intelligent person based on the lyrics he composed and the interviews he gave. As such, Robert attempted to impress Jake by using words that were both obscure and complex. Instead of simply saying, "the blending of your lyrics and music is inspiring", he wrote, "the complex and cosmopolitan amalgamation of your artisan musing and your musical ensemble leads one to believe in the orchestration of genetic superiority in certain genres of human aptitude."

"Thanks, Robert," Jake said, filing that one away as praise and then dropping the letter and envelope into the trash.

The eighth letter he opened was one he actually answered. It was from a young fan named Jeff in Indianapolis. Jeff was a freshman college student and he had been an Intemperance fan ever since his first year of high school. He liked the music that Matt composed, but he felt that Jake's composition and lyrical skills were far superior. He expounded for a few paragraphs about how one of the pleasures of his life was buying a new Intemperance album and then listening to each Jake Kingsley penned track over and over until he was able to figure out just what the lyrics meant. He then went on to explain his interpretation of several of Jake's songs. For the most part, he was right on target. He knew that Descent Into Nothing was about being forced to grow up fast. He knew that Point Of Futility was about feeling a relationship slip away. He knew that I Found Myself Again was about life on the road. His question, however, was about one of the unrecorded live tracks found on In Action � This Life We Live. He knew the song was generally about the downside of being a celebrity figure in modern life, but there was one bit of lyrics he didn't quite understand.

"In the first bridge of the song," he wrote, "you speak of 'women you can take but you can't kiss, they're everything you've dreamed, but was the dream like this?' What exactly are you referring to there? I'm usually quite adept at ferreting out the meaning of each of your lines, but this one eludes me."

Jake chuckled and pulled a sheet of paper out of his desk (it had the Intemperance logo on it and was headed with FROM THE DESK OF JAKE KINGSLEY). He started with 'Dear Jeff" and then wrote a few quick paragraphs about how nice it was to hear from someone who actually understood what he wrote about. He then gave him a brief and truthful explanation about what 'women you can take but you can't kiss' actually meant. That, of course, served to illustrate what the second part of the verse he'd asked about meant as well. He closed the letter by thanking Jeff for writing and then signing his name to the paper. He folded it up and put it in a pre-stamped envelope he pulled from another desk drawer. He quickly scrawled Jeff's name and address on the front and then dropped the letter into his outgoing mail tray. He then threw Jeff's letter into the trash and opened up another one.

As he worked his way through first one and then another bottle of wine, he read more then sixty letters in all. Most were positive, but not all. There were, like always, a few from religious fanatics, right wing pro-government fanatics, and women's lib types who assumed that since Jake sang Matt's lyrics that he had penned them as well. He read each of these like he did all his mail but answered none of them. There were also quite a few from women who had strong feelings for him. Some were brief and to the point � "I want to fuck you, Jake. Just give me a time and a place and I'll be there to do it" � and others were more poignant, with the writer going on and on about how his music spoke to them and aroused them and how the mere sight of his picture caused wet panties.

A few of the female letters contained Polaroid pictures of the woman purporting to be the author of the piece. Some of these pictures were everyday shots of a smiling girl, others were a bit on the risqu� side, with lingerie or lots of cleavage, others still were out and out pornographic in nature. One shot in this batch was of a cute, college age girl with brunette hair and large breasts. She was lying back on a bed with a dildo inserted inside of her and a wanting expression on her face. On the bottom of the picture she wrote, "I was looking at your picture on an album cover when my girlfriend took this shot."

A few of these pictures he saved in a special part of his lower desk drawer. He was a man, after all.

And then there were the letters that caused uneasiness in him when he read them. These were letters from women who did not just want to fuck Jake, but who proclaimed they were in love with him, that they wanted to be a part of his life, that they were the perfect woman if he would just give them a chance. He always made a point of never answering any of these ones.

When the second bottle of wine was but a memory he was tired and ready for bed. He decided it was time to call it a night and maybe read some more of these tomorrow night when he got back from a date he had planned with Helen. He looked over at his latest cigarette in the ashtray and saw that it was still only about half smoked.

"Maybe just one more," he said, reaching into the bag and pulling one out at random.

He took a quick drag of his smoke and then opened the envelope. He could tell immediately by the tight, spiky handwriting on the letter that this one was from a female. He started to read. As he went through the letter he became more and more uneasy with each sentence that passed.

Dearest dearest Jake, love of my life, it started.

It's me again, Jenny, the woman destined to be your soulmate. I've written you twice before, as I'm sure you're aware, but I must have put the wrong address on my letters since your replies have never made it back to me. I guess that's just our intertwined fate working against us. Life has a way of doing that, doesn't it?

My last letter, as you'll recall, was of a congratulatory nature. That was when you broke up with that awful slut Rachel. You'll remember I warned you that she was no good for you, that she was simply using you for your money and to get publicity for that sleazy restaurant her slutty mother owns. Sometimes I think it was my psychic powers that sent that redheaded slut to you down in Mexico. Although I wasn't happy when I saw those pictures of you kissing her, or when I read that you had spent several hours with her in your hotel room, I felt better when I finally realized that you wouldn't have actually done anything with her in there. The whole thing had to have been part of our plot to give you a plausible reason to make Rachel leave you.

As I said in my second letter, it all worked out for the best and it seemed that our time was coming soon.

But now... now now now! Instead of floating into my embrace as is written in the stars and in the Almanac of Life... it seems a new seductress is trying to pull you from our destiny together. This Helen slut that you've been keeping company with of late is forcing me to question the promise you made to me in my dream that one night � the promise I wrote you about in my first letter. Whatever in the world are you doing with her, Jake? I see pictures of her on every magazine, in every newspaper, even when I turn on my television set. God, you can't imagine how much I hate the sight of her face. I've had dreams about her as well, you know. Dreams in which I stabbed her over and over again in that ugly, slutty face, where I burned her flesh right off her body!

You have to get rid of her, Jake! The more I see the two of you together, the harder it is to keep telling myself that you're keeping yourself pure for me like you promised in my dream. You MUST get rid of her immediately or I will not be able to take responsibility for her safety.

Your loving and faithful soulmate,

Jenny Johansen

"Wow," Jake said, his blood feeling more than a little cold. Women becoming obsessed with him were nothing new, of course. He had received more than his share of disturbing letters over the years � letters in which women proclaimed they would die if they couldn't have him, that he would die if they couldn't have him, but this... this was something else entirely. This woman was beyond obsessed. This woman sounded downright dangerous, and not just to him, but to Helen.

You must get rid of her immediately or I will not be able to take responsibility for her safety.

Was that a threat? Or was it more paranoid delusion like the ones in which she'd written to him before (Jake had never received any previous letters from this woman, he certainly would have remembered them), or like the dreams in which Jake promised himself to her. But those weren't the only dreams Jenny had had, were they?

Dreams in which I stabbed her over and over again in that ugly, slutty face, where I burned her flesh right off her body!

Jake looked at the date on the letter. It had been written only four days ago. The postmark on the envelope confirmed this. He looked at the address. It was a Los Angeles address and postmark. She lived within twenty miles of him, within sixty miles of Helen. And both of their addresses had long since become a part of the public record.

For the first time since becoming a celebrity so many years ago, Jake found himself afraid of the consequences of the life he'd chosen.

Los Angeles, California

June 12, 1989

10:48 PM

Jake and Helen emerged from the main door of the Century theatre complex in Westwood, two people in a crowd of around fifty who had just watched the 8:45 showing of Driving Miss Daisy. They walked hand in hand out into the parking lot of the multi-plex, heading for Jake's car, which he'd parked out toward the back, away from other vehicles to prevent dings, and beneath a light pole to discourage break-ins. Gradually, the crowd thinned out as those in it headed off in different directions. By the time Jake unlocked the BMW with the remote control on his keychain and opened the passenger door for Helen, they were alone. She sat in her seat and Jake went around to the driver's side and sat in his.

As soon as Jake's door was shut and he started the engine, Helen sighed contentedly. "That was absolutely wonderful," she said.

"The movie?" Jake replied. "Yeah, it was pretty good. They say it's a shoe-in for the best picture Oscar next year."

"Oh... yeah," Helen said. "The movie was good too. I was talking about the fact that we made it through a complete dinner and a movie date and not one person made reference to the fact that you're Jake Kingsley. It was almost like we were normal people on a normal date."

"You see?" Jake said. "It can happen."

"Well, it wasn't quite like normal," Helen qualified. "All those people at the steakhouse were staring at us."

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "Flamers is where people go to see celebrities. That's why they seated us in the middle of the room. There is an unwritten rule there that they're not allowed to talk to us, though. That's why they left us alone."

"So that's why we went there," Helen said. "You knew no one would bother us."

"Yep," he said. "And the food's pretty good too."

"What about the movie?" she asked. "The counter girl recognized us. That's for sure."

"Yeah," Jake said. "It would seem so." The girl who had sold them their movie tickets had indeed recognized them. She had stared, awestruck, at Jake for almost thirty seconds from behind her wall of bulletproof glass, and then she had been so tongue-tied it had taken another two minutes or so to complete the transaction. Her hands had been shaking as she'd passed the two tickets and Jake's change through the little slot.

"But other than her," Helen said, "no one seemed to know who we were. It was almost weird."

Jake knew that the counter girl was not the only person who had recognized them at the movie theater. He was quite attuned to being the center of attention and, as such, had been able to see things that Helen had missed. Several groups of people had been pointing at them and whispering to each other as they'd made their way across the crowded lobby. He had even been able to lip read one person saying, "That's Jake Kingsley and his girlfriend." But, for whatever odd reason, everyone had chosen to keep his or her distance from them. Not a single person that night asked for an autograph, or volunteered domestic violence hotline numbers to Helen, or told Jake he was a hell-bound sinner, or even told him that he fuckin' rocked, man.

"Sometimes it happens that way," Jake said. "I've learned not to question it, not to try to figure out why it happened, just to enjoy it."

"It was heaven," Helen said. "The perfect date. No WEAVE pamphlets shoved in my hands, no boobs belonging to nymphomaniac sluts shoved in your hands."

"I only wish it could always be that way," Jake said sincerely.

"I'll take it when I can get it," Helen replied.

"That's pretty much my motto in all things," Jake said, earning himself a playful punch on the arm.

"That's domestic violence," he told her. "What was that number those women are always yelling at you? I think I need to call them."

"Oh shut your ass," she said. "I'm going home with you tonight, ain't I? What more do you want?"

Jake laughed and squeezed her leg with his free hand. He was indeed heading for his own house instead of traversing the onramp that would point him in the direction of Ventura. The reason Helen was staying at his house tonight was not simply for sex, but for practicality. Celia's wedding was in two days and they were flying out of LAX the next morning at 7:35, their destination: Boston. From Logan International, they were renting a Cessna 172 and flying it to Martha's Vineyard where the ceremony was to take place at 1:00 PM on Thursday, the 15^th of June. They were arriving early because Jake was part of the wedding ceremony and needed to be present for the rehearsal on the 14^th.

"I want it all, baby," he told her. "I want it all."

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Are you trying to circumspectly bring up the subject of me moving in with you again?" she asked. "Because if you are... we've been over this a dozen times. I've told you, Jake. I'm not ready for that yet."

"Actually... I was just making a joke," he said.

"Oh... sorry," she said, mistrust evident in her eyes. "Are you sure you weren't hinting just a little bit?"

"Not even a little bit," he told her.

Jake had asked her several times to move in with him over the past month, not because he thought it was time to take their relationship to that level � he was just as uncertain about that as she was � but because of the frightening letter he'd received from Jenny Johansen, a.k.a, the woman who dreamed of stabbing Helen over and over again in that "ugly, slutty face." He was terrified for Helen's safety. She lived in a fairly rural part of Ventura, an area where houses were situated on two to three acre lots and neighbors would not be able to hear one's scream for help. And her address was public record. It would be absurdly easy for Jenny Johansen to drive from her house in the Canoga Park section of LA, stroll up Bennington Lane in the middle of the night, break into Helen's house, and "burn the flesh right off her body" as she threatened to do in her letter.

Unfortunately, Helen didn't seem to take the threat of the letter as seriously as Jake did. He had called her up immediately after reading it for the first time and tried to get her to drive out to his house and stay with him. She had refused, telling him that she didn't want to have to drive forty miles to get to work in the morning. She had similarly refused every further offer to move in with him on the same basis � the commute would be horrible � and because she wasn't sure they were quite ready to "cohabitate in a non-legally sanctioned manner".

"Helen, this woman is dangerous," Jake had told her time and time again. "She could show up on your doorstep any time with a pair of handcuffs and a blowtorch."

"She's just a whacko," Helen insisted whenever the subject was brought up. "You have all that information on her, don't you? Does she seem like she's bright enough to figure out how to look up my address?"

Helen did have somewhat of a point there. The day after receiving the letter, Jake had shown it to Pauline, who had, in turn, showed it to her friend Steve Marshall, head of investigations for Standforth and Breckman, the corporate law firm Pauline had worked for before signing on as Intemperance manager. Steve, using a variety of methods, legal, quasi-legal, and downright illegal, had performed a complete background check on Jenny Johansen and provided Jake with a dossier on her within two days. Johansen was twenty-eight years old, five feet, eight inches in height, and weighed two hundred and sixteen pounds. She worked as a certified nurse's assistant, or CNA, at a skuzzy Los Angeles convalescent home. She had never been married and lived in a rented house in one of the declining LA neighborhoods. She was a high school drop-out with a tested IQ of 87. She had been diagnosed as bi-polar two years before but had never been suspected of being schizophrenic. Her only trouble with the law had been a speeding ticket two years before, which she had promptly paid. She was habitually late with many of her bills but eventually paid them all. She had five credit cards in her name, all of which were either maxed out or close to maxed out. She had never filed for bankruptcy and had never been in jail or in a mental institution. It was true that she did not seem to be the brightest bunny in the forest, but it was also true that in matters of one's life, one could not be too careful.

So far, the only precaution Jake had succeeded in getting Helen to take had been to lock her doors when she was at home � something that the rural setting of her home had never encouraged her to do in the past. And even in this, Jake wasn't quite sure she was one hundred percent faithful. More than once he had gone over to visit and had found her front door standing wide open, with only the unlocked screen door barring entry.

Jake suspected that her attitude might become a little more serious regarding the Jenny Johansen matter tonight. He had received another letter from Jenny the day before. He intended to show the letter to Helen when they got back to his house. But for now, he wanted to keep the discussion on more pleasant things.

"Now that I'm done with my instrument rating," he told her. "I need to start working on something else." He had, in fact, finished up his instrument rating the week before. Though Helen had not been his instructor due to their relationship, he had still been able to take the classes and fly the required hours with Brent Cassidy, one of the new instructor pilots Helen's dad had hired to help fill the increased demand for his school.

"What else is there to work on?" Helen asked. "You can fly your plane day or night, good weather or bad now. Unless you're planning to get your commercial license, you're pretty much done."

"Actually, I'm not," he said. "I need to get certified in multi-engine aircraft and pressurized aircraft."

She looked at him strangely. "Why?" she asked.

"I love the 172," Jake said, "but it's not big enough and it's not fast enough for my needs. I'm looking into purchasing a 414."

Her mouth dropped open. "You want a 414? Are you serious? Do you know how much those things cost?"

The Cessna 414 was a twin engine, propeller driven aircraft that could hold up to eight people, cruised at 200 miles per hour, could be pressurized, and could fly as high as 30,000 feet above sea level. "Yes," Jake said. "I've had Jill looking into it for me � much to her disgust. A mid-seventies model in good condition goes for around $150,000. I think I'd want a newer one though, something early 80's. The 1982 model is particularly nice. With all the avionics I want, they go for around $220,000."

"That's pretty steep, Jake," she said.

He shrugged. "It's only money," he said. "I could finance it on a fifteen year loan. Payments would be around two grand a month. Insurance, storage, maintenance, and other upkeep would run another thousand a month. What's three grand?"

"Three grand is what dad and I clear in about two weeks these days," Helen said. "And we think we're rich."

"I'm not trying to come down on anyone," Jake said. "I make enough money to support this, so why shouldn't I have a 414 if I can afford it?"

"Why should you is a better question," she said. "Our school isn't able to certify you in multi-engine or pressurization. You'd have to go elsewhere for that. You're talking at least five grand, not including plane rental or fuel during the process. Is it really worth it, Jake? You have a very nice plane right now."

"Yes," Jake said. "Like I said, I love the 172. It's just too small for my needs. Take tomorrow, for instance. We're renting one in Martha's Vineyard and because of that, we're limited in how much luggage we can take."

"I don't think two hundred pounds of luggage apiece is all that limited."

"Okay," he admitted. "Bad example. But remember when we went to Bodega Bay with Matt and Kim? Since we had the weight of two other people to deal with, we were only allowed to have twelve pounds of luggage apiece. That's not enough for any sort of trip that involves dressing up."

"So you want to spend a quarter million dollars on a plane just so you can carry enough luggage?" she asked. "Wouldn't it be easier and cheaper to just fly commercial for those situations?"

"Probably," Jake admitted. "But I don't want to have to fly commercial. I like flying myself and my friends wherever we want to go. With a 414 I can fly home to Heritage in about two hours. And I can take you, Nerdly, Sharon, Pauline, and all of our luggage with us. But even that's not the most important reason."

"What is?" she asked.

"I need to get out of LA," he said. "I can't stand it here. I hate living here. I hate everything about it. I hate the smog, I hate my pious, hypocrite neighbors, I hate the traffic, I hate the crowding, I hate the tiny little lot I live on."

"Tiny little lot? Jake, you live in a damn mansion!"

"With other mansions all around me," he said. "I want a nice chunk of land on the ocean somewhere, at least ten acres, somewhere where my neighbors are just vague concepts. I want my own airstrip on that land to fly my plane in and out of. I can't afford anything like that within range of my 172. With the 414, however, I could potentially live up to three hundred miles away and still do a daily commute when we're recording or mixing. If I keep an apartment of some kind in LA and stay there during the workweek, virtually all of California and a good chunk of both Nevada and Arizona are within reach. That's why I want a new plane."

She was looking at him now with understanding. "Do you really hate LA that much?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "I really do."

"And what about me?" she asked. "How do I fit into this plan of yours? I like being a flight instructor. I'm eventually going to take over my dad's business. It's what I plan to do until I retire."

"You work in an airport, Helen," he reminded her. "And you're a pilot. Assuming that we move in together at some point, you could just fly a plane to work every morning."

"Wouldn't that decrease your range back to the unaffordable range?" she asked.

"Maybe," he said. "And maybe not. It's something we can work out when the time comes, isn't it?"

"I suppose," she said.

"The first step is getting me certified in multi-engine and pressurization. Are you gonna set me up with someone, or what?"

"You know I will," she said. "But I want to take the classes and get certified with you."

"You do?"

"Bet your ass," she said. "You think I'm gonna have you able to fly something that I can't? Dream on, motherfucker."

Jake laughed. "I love you, Helen," he said, stroking a lock of her hair.

"I love you too," she told him, leaning in to give him a soft, sensuous kiss on the cheek.

He took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a loving gaze. "Can I cheat off your test papers when we take the class?" he asked.

That earned him yet another punch in the shoulder, and her another accusation of domestic violence.

Helen was in the mood for love when they got back to his place. Jake went to the wine cellar to select a good vintage for them (he went with one of the bottles he'd bought in Bordeaux) and by the time he carried it back upstairs, she was sitting on the bed, dressed in nothing but one of his long T-shirts. Her long, sexy legs were on display, parted just enough to allow him a tantalizing peek between them. Her large, braless breasts bounced and jiggled with each movement of her body. She was playing coy, of course, acting like she was just getting ready for bed and had no idea the picture she was painting for him.

"Looks like someone is interested in a little more than sleep tonight," Jake commented as he set the wine bottle down on a table and picked up the corkscrew.

"I don't know what made you think that," she said with mock huffiness. "I was just making myself comfortable."

"Uh huh," he said, threading the corkscrew into the cork. He gently pulled it out and set it down. He then poured each of them a glass. He carried them over to the bed and handed Helen hers.

"Thanks," she said, snuggling into his side, rubbing her breast against his shoulder.

He took a sip of the wine, taking a moment to savor the taste of it, and then looked at Helen, a serious expression on his face. "Before you get any more comfortable," he told her. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to make you uncomfortable first."

The sexy smile faded a little from her face. "What do you mean?" she asked carefully.

"I got another letter from Miss Johansen yesterday," he told her.

"Oh Jesus," Helen said with a shake of the head. "I thought you were going to give me the 'I think we should see other people' speech. Can't we talk about this... you know..." She took his free hand and dropped it high on her upper thigh. "... later?"

The soft skin of her leg and the hint of aroused musk he smelled when she pulled the hem of the t-shirt up almost derailed him. Almost. He gently removed his hand. "I really think we should talk about it now," he told her.

"Oh come on, Jake," she said. "So the whacko wrote you another letter? What's the big deal? I told you, there's no reason to take her seriously. She's just someone with mental problems."

"I really think you should read the letter," Jake said. "It's... well... more disturbing than the first one. Much more disturbing."

Helen chewed her bottom lip nervously. "Much more, huh?" she asked.

"Yeah," Jake said. He stood up and walked over to the desk in the corner of the room. Inside the top drawer was an envelope. He picked it up and carried it over to Helen.

She reluctantly took it. After setting her wine glass down on the table next to the bed she pulled open the flap and removed two pieces of paper. She unfolded them and looked down at the first sheet. It was written in the same spiky handwriting as the first letter.

Jake my love, my soulmate,

I still haven't heard back from you so I can only conclude that that bitch Helen is intercepting your letters to me. When I realized the lengths that slut is going to just to keep us from fulfilling our destiny together, I also realized that she must be exerting some kind of supernatural mind control over you to keep you bound to her. No other explanation makes sense. I realize now that your situation must be desperate and that I must act quickly and forcefully in order to free you from the pit of hell you are in. Don't worry. Help is on the way. I'm formulating your liberation even now. The end of your suffering is in sight and the end of that demon spawn who has enslaved you is imminent.

Please study the drawing I sent with this letter. Soon you will see this in person and the spell will be broken. We are almost together, my love. Just one more tough battle to fight.

All my love, all my life,

Jen

"Wow," Helen said when she was done with the letter. "I will admit that this one did actually send a chill up my spine, but I still don't think..."

"Uh... Helen," Jake said. "I think maybe you'd better take a look at the drawing she made before you dismiss this as just another letter."

She was about to make a wisecrack, her mouth was actually opening to deliver it, and then she took a good look at Jake's face. She could tell he was very upset by the letter, very worried about her. She closed her mouth and looked down at the sheets of paper in her hand. Slowly, she removed the top sheet upon which the letter itself had been written. When she saw what was underneath she gasped. She stared at the picture for nearly thirty seconds, her hands beginning to tremble.

The picture took up most of a standard sheet of typing paper. It had been drawn in colored pencils with exacting detail, displaying a frightening amount of artistic talent. The picture showed Helen from the shoulders up, the likeness unmistakable. Helen had been drawn with a ragged, bloody gash across her throat, as if a dull knife had slashed her from ear to ear. Her mouth was open and filled with blood, her teeth bashed in. And her eyes... well... her eyes weren't there at all. Where the eyes should have been were two bloody sockets with ripped and ragged flesh surrounding them. Printed in gothic calligraphy below the picture, in letters drawn red and dripping blood, were the words, DIE DEMON!! DIE!!!!

"Are you okay, hon?" Jake asked as he saw that Helen's trembling was getting worse.

"I'm... I'm gonna be sick," she said, dropping the letter to the floor. She scrambled into the bathroom and Jake heard violent retching coming from within. She was in there for more than five minutes. Finally, the water ran as she brushed her teeth and she emerged, still looking a little pale and ill.

"Are you okay?" he asked her.

"Jesus Christ, Jake," she said. "You could've warned me."

"Sorry," he said. "I wanted you to see that this woman is dangerous."

"She's a fuckin' psycho!" Helen yelled. "Holy shit! I need to call the cops!"

"I already did," Jake said.

"You did? What did they say? Are they going to arrest her?"

"There's nothing they can do," he said. "I called the LAPD, who I don't really have a great relationship with, and they basically told me to go pound sand. They say there's no crime until she actually attempts to assault you or me."

"Wonderful," Helen said.

"I also called the Ventura Sheriff's Department. They were, at least, a little friendlier with me, if not very helpful. They said the same thing LAPD did, that there's nothing they can do until she actually makes some sort of move on you. They said if you see her creeping around near your house, that, coupled with the letters she's written, might be enough to get you a temporary restraining order against her."

"Which is nothing but a piece of paper," Helen said.

"Correct," Jake agreed. "They did also promise to send patrol cars by your house a few times a day and at night, just to check on things. Very nice of them, I will agree, but not very helpful in the great scheme of things."

Helen slumped down on the bed. Her shirt had ridden up, displaying her nude crotch to his view, but somehow, the sight was not as sexy as it had been a few minutes before. He took a sip of his wine and then lay down next to her. He brushed the hair from her eyes and kissed her on the nose. "I'm sorry about all this, babe," he told her. "I really didn't want to spring this on you the night before we go to Martha's Vineyard, but I thought you would want to know about this."

"It's okay," she said, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it. "I just need to figure out what I'm going to do about this."

"You know what I'm going to suggest," he said.

She nodded. "I know," she said. "Come move in here with you."

"You'll be much safer," Jake said. "My house is pretty secure, there's always someone here, and if we need the cops, they get here a lot faster."

"And I'll be forty miles from where I work," Helen said, "and I'll be moving in with you because of security, not because I think it's time for us to move in together."

"I know," Jake said, "but under the circumstances, don't you think..."

She was shaking her head. "No, Jake," she said. "And not just for those two reasons either. I'm not going to let this psycho bitch chase me out of my house. I love my house. I worked hard and saved for years in order to buy it and I'm not going to run away from it just because some whack-job is obsessed with my famous boyfriend. Do you understand where I'm coming from?"

"Yeah," he said with a sigh. "I do."

They lay there together in silence for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling fan spinning above them. Jake had a few sips of his wine. Helen left hers untouched.

"If you're not going to move out," Jake finally said, "will you at least let me make your house a little more secure?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Alarm system, motion detectors, automatic security lighting out in front and back. The same stuff I have here."

"Jake, that'll cost a fortune," she said.

"I have a fortune," he told her. "Let me get someone working on it tomorrow and it'll be done by the time we get back from the wedding."

She wanted to say no. Jake could tell just by looking at her face. Helen was incredibly proud and incredibly stubborn. She couldn't quite bring herself to reject his offer, however. "Okay," she said. "That sounds like a good idea. But I'm going to pay you back."

"Don't worry about it," Jake said. "It won't be that much money."

"With interest," she added.

"Okay," he said, giving in. "You'll pay me back with interest."

"You're just jerking me off," she accused. "You have no intention of taking my money, do you?"

"Are you kidding?" he asked her. "Of course I'm gonna take your money. And if you're late with a single fucking payment, I'm gonna send some people over to your pad to thump on you a little."

She smiled, the first she'd offered since reading the letter. "You're an asshole," she said.

"True," he agreed. "And that's why you love me, isn't it?"

"No," she said. "I don't love you at all. This was all an elaborate scheme to score myself a new security system."

He chuckled. "Still want to score something else as well?" he asked.

"I might be persuaded," she said.

"You might be?"

"I might be," she confirmed.

As it turned out, she didn't require all that much persuasion.

Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts

June 14^th, 1989

The wedding rehearsal took several hours to complete, as all members of the wedding ceremony ran through their respective roles over and over at the direction of a flamboyantly gay wedding planner named Irving Grand. Irving became a little peeved with Jake when Jake refused to perform the actual song he would be singing at the ceremony.

"You have to practice it here, Jake," he'd cried dramatically on several occasions. "You, as a musical performer, must realize the importance of careful rehearsal prior to performance."

"I rehearsed it enough before I left," Jake said. "I won't screw it up when the time comes to play it. I'm a professional."

"But we must know the timing of the piece," Irving said. "We must know how it fits in with the ambience of the ceremony so we may adjust the events that occur after it accordingly!"

"It's two minutes and thirty-four seconds in length," Jake told him. "And it's a mellow love song that will fit in perfectly with a wedding ceremony."

"But..."

"No buts," Jake said. "Not a single person on Earth has heard this song yet except me. I haven't even run it by Helen. And the first time it is heard by ears other than mine will be during the ceremony it was specifically written for. If it'll make you feel better, I'll throw down another two-minute and thirty something second tune during the rehearsal to fill in the space."

Irving didn't like this, but eventually accepted that it was the best he was going to get. He agreed, and Jake performed an acoustic guitar version of Molly Malone, the Irish folk ballad, timing it to make it last two and a half minutes. During the first run-through the other members of the wedding party clapped and sang along, further irritating Irving.

"Interesting choice of replacement tune," said Celia, who had been one of the ones clapping along. "A song about a girl who dies young."

"I've always liked that song," Jake said. "My mom used to sing it when I was a kid. And, since it was written sometime in the 1800s, no one holds the copyright on it. No one can take legal action against me for doing a public access tune."

"I guess not," Celia agreed.

In addition to rehearsing the ceremony, Jake and Helen were introduced to Celia's parents, who had been flown to Martha's Vineyard from Barquisimeto, Venezuela on a private Learjet chartered by Greg Oldfellow. Roberto Valdez was a tall, balding man of fifty-six, very foreboding looking although this impression quickly disappeared when you started talking to him. Maria Valdez was fifty-one and the resemblance to Celia was almost startling. She was tall, large bosomed, and had a thick mane of rich brunette hair. The aging process had been kind to her and she could have passed for Celia's older sister instead of her mother. Maria's command of the English language was spotty at best. She understood everything that was said to her but sometimes lapsed into Spanish when replying. She, like her husband, was very pleasant but seemed overwhelmed at the grandeur in which she found herself.

"So which one of you is responsible for teaching Celia the guitar?" Jake asked them during a break in the action. "I know it had to be one or both of you, because she's surely got some musical genes going on."

"It was I," Roberto said with no small measure of pride. "I taught Celia and Eduardo the guitar when they children."

The lessons didn't stick as well with Eduardo, did they? Jake did not say. Eduardo, lead guitarist of La Diferencia, knew his chords well enough but did not seem to be able to progress beyond simple rhythms. The few solos he had done on the albums were nothing more than disjointed noise that vaguely resembled music. "You are to be complimented, Senor," he did say. "Celia's acoustical playing is a thing of beauty."

Roberto nodded, obviously pleased with the praise (and obviously not missing Jake's exclusion of Eduardo in the statement). "She took to the instrument at a very early age," he said. "I remember teaching her the basic chords before she was even in school. She has long since surpassed her brother and even myself in skill."

"You are quite the guitar player as well, Jake," Maria said, her accent so thick it took Jake a moment to interpret just what she'd said. "I enjoyed the cockles and muscles song you did."

"Thank you, Senora Valdez," he said. "Hopefully you will enjoy the actual wedding song I composed as well."

"I'm looking forward to it," she told him. She then rattled off a long statement in rapid fire Spanish which Senor Valdez reluctantly interpreted as her opinion that he should consider getting a haircut as he looked like a girl.

Jake laughed. "I'll take that under advisement," he told her.

Finally, the rehearsal came to an end and the traditional rehearsal dinner began. The wedding party was served New York steaks, grilled mushrooms, fresh asparagus, and rice pilaf. For desert, there was baked Alaska. The food was very good and there was a lot of it.

The wedding hall was a no smoking facility, so after the plates were taken away, Jake excused himself to go step outside and have a cigarette. Helen was still working on her last glass of wine � she was a bit on the tipsy side � and talking to Greg's sister, who was interested in learning to fly. She elected to stay behind.

Jake walked out through the back door of the facility and onto a large balcony that overlooked the resort's private beach. There was a brisk wind blowing and the soothing sound of the breakers crashing on the shore drifted to him. He took out a smoke and lit up. No sooner had he taken his first drag when a whiff of vanilla reached his nose.

"Got another one of those?" Celia asked him, taking up position on the rail next to him. She, like everyone else at the rehearsal, was dressed informally. She had on a pair of khaki shorts and a white sleeveless blouse. Her hair was pulled into a simple ponytail.

"I think I can spare one," he said, pulling out his pack. He shook one out for her and then lit his lighter so she could ignite it. She drew deeply on it and then exhaled, sending a plume of smoke out over the beach where it was torn asunder by the breeze.

"Thanks," she said with a sigh. "I really needed that."

"My smokes are your smokes," he told her. "I spent a little time with your parents earlier."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he said. "You'll excuse me for saying so, but your mom is pretty hot for a woman her age. Greg should be pleased. You definitely pass the 'mom test'."

"The 'mom test'?" she asked. "I don't think I'm quite familiar with that."

Jake chuckled. "It's one of those chauvinistic ideas we men like to engage in," he told her. "According to conventional wisdom, if you're considering marrying a woman, you need to take a look at her mom on the theory that the woman in question is going to age similarly to her mother. The assumption is that you're getting a look at what your possible wife is going to look like in twenty-five years."

"Ahhh, I see," she said with a chuckle. "So if my mom would've been fat, or gray, or wrinkled..."

"Mom test failed," Jake confirmed. "Your mom, however, is none of those. Your padre is a very lucky man."

"So is my madre," she said. "You probably didn't notice, but daddy is pretty good looking as well."

"Actually, I don't tend to notice things like that," he said. "But now that you mention it, he does seem to hold up rather well."

They had a few more drags apiece, listening to the crashing of the surf. It was a companionable silence, not the least bit awkward.

"So how are you doing, Celia?" Jake asked her. "As I recall from past conversations, you only smoke cigarettes when you're stressed out. Is the wedding getting to you?"

"That's part of it," she said. "This whole week has been nothing but a frantic rush as we tried to pin everything down and make sure everything is arranged and ready."

"What's the other part?" he asked.

She looked at him and took another slow drag, letting it drift out of her mouth and nostrils. She tapped the ashes over the balcony railing. "Greg's been acting kind of weird lately," she said. "I'm not sure what to make of it."

"What kind of weird?" Jake asked. "Are we talking homicidal maniac kind of weird or the garden variety what-the-hell-crawled-up-your-ass kind of weird?"

Celia giggled a little. "The latter," she said. "It's been going on for almost two months now. He's very distant with me at times. At other times, he's very argumentative. He'll snap at me for some little thing and act like I just killed a child or something when all I did was drop a can into the garbage instead of the recycle bin. It's been getting worse over the past three weeks."

"You think it might just be pre-wedding stress?" Jake asked. "I hear it can be pretty bad."

"Maybe," she said. "It's certainly gotten worse as the date actually approached. But I think it might be something else as well."

"Like what?" he asked.

"It really started when Aristocrat told us they weren't going to pick us up for the next option period," she said.

That had been at the beginning of May, Jake remembered. The first time Jake and Helen had gotten together with Celia and Greg to play golf after returning from the international tour, the news had still been days fresh � fresh enough to still sting. And, now that he thought about it, Greg had seemed even angrier and more hurt about the rejection than Celia had. He had gone on and on about how the sleazy record companies just used someone as long as they were making money, destroyed their career with their overbearing restriction on artistic license, and then just threw them to the curb once they were done with them.

"It bothers him a lot that we're not going to make another album," Celia said. "He's been acting like it was some sort of personal affront to him and him alone. It kind of pisses me off at times, to tell you the truth. I mean, Eduardo and the rest of the band had to move back to Venezuela because they kicked us out of our condos. I would have had to move back too if Greg wasn't paying for an apartment for me. And somehow, I've managed to accept all this. I don't know why Greg can't."

"I assume you've talked to him about this?" Jake asked.

"I've tried," she said. "All he keeps going on about is whether or not there is some way I can sign with a different label as a solo artist and put out my own album."

"You can't," Jake said. "You're pretty much forbidden from making any music until your contract expires."

"I know," she said. "He can't seem to get a grip on that particular fact though. I keep trying to tell him that it's only two years, that I'll be able to put something together when I'm free, but he says that it might be too long. That people might..." She choked up a little, turning her face so Jake couldn't see it.

Jake reached out and gently took her face in his hands, turning it back to him. There was a tear tracking down her left cheek. "People might what?" he asked.

"They might forget about me by then," she said.

"It sounds like maybe you're worried about that too?"

"Yes," she said. "I am."

He tossed his cigarette out onto the beach below and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him. With his finger, he reached up and wiped the tear from her face. "You're a great musician, Celia," he told her. "You were forced to make some forgettable music by your circumstances, but your career is not over, whether people forget about you or not. Once you're free, you can make any kind of music you want and it'll be badass music because it will be yours. You've got the voice, you've got the composition skills, and you've got the guitar talent. All you'll need to do is surround yourself with some good musicians who will do what the hell you tell them to do and you'll shine. I have no doubt about that."

She smiled, snuggling her face into his shoulder. "Thanks, Jake," she said softly. "That actually makes me feel better. It wouldn't have it had come from anyone but you, but I... you know... I respect your musical opinion quite a bit."

"And I respect yours," he said, hugging her against him a little tighter for a moment and then releasing her.

"That still leaves me with the problem of Greg," she said.

"How big of a problem is it?" Jake asked. "Is it big enough that... you know... maybe tomorrow is a mistake?"

She sighed. "I honestly don't know," she said. "I love Greg very much and I know he loves me, but this whole issue is just... weird. I don't know why it bothers him so much that I won't be working for the next two years, but it does. It's not like we need the money or anything."

Jake shrugged. He didn't know either. During the few conversations he'd had with Greg since arriving in Martha's Vineyard yesterday, he had been pleasant and a good host, giving no hint that he was troubled.

"He was embarrassed when you asked us about the leak to the press," Celia said.

That had been a few days after the media had first started demanding to know if the rumor they'd heard about Jake's attendance was true. Greg had denied leaking anything and had seemed genuinely upset that a leak had taken place. He had his people look into the matter and it had been discovered that one of his publicist's assistants had been the source of the leak. She had claimed it was a simple mistake and that she hadn't realized the information was supposed to be secret.

"It wasn't his fault," Jake said. "Shit happens. I, of all people, should know that. He told me that he gave the young lady in question a stern talking-to and that was the end of it."

"That's just it," Celia said. "I... well... I'm not entirely sure that he was being truthful about all of that."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't have any hard proof or anything, but I kind of think that Greg told his publicist to release that information and make it look like an accidental leak."

"Why would he do that?" Jake asked.

"He seemed to think that if it became public knowledge that you and I were friends � that if I had enough street-cred to hang out with Jake Kingsley � then Aristocrat might just change their minds and authorize a new album after all."

"Wow," Jake said, unsure what to say.

"Obviously it didn't work," she said. "I could've told him it wouldn't. But that was one more thing he got pissed off about and led to another two-day rant about the record company."

"Are you sure you're doing the right thing by marrying him?" Jake asked.

She offered a cynical smile. "It's a little too late to back out now, wouldn't you say? In less then eighteen hours it'll be a done deal, prenuptial agreement and everything."

"It's never too late until you say those two little words," Jake said.

She shook her head. "I'm not much for grandstand plays at the last second," she said. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen if � God forbid � I am making a mistake? We'll get divorced somewhere down the road and I'll end up collecting a good chunk of alimony for a few years. If nothing else, it'll keep me in the states until my contract period expires."

"That's not what marriage is supposed to be about," Jake told her.

"I know," she said. "And I'm just blowing off a little steam here. More than likely all of this is just pre-marital stress and we'll go back to our happy little life once it's over with."

"Hopefully," Jake said.

She threw her own cigarette over the balcony, adding to the litter on the beach below. "We'd better get back in before they send someone out to find us."

"Right," Jake said.

"Thanks for listening to me, Jake. I really do feel better about all this now that I've been able to talk to someone about it."

"Anytime," Jake told her.

"You really are a dear friend to me," she said. "One of my best, as a matter of fact. Sometimes I wonder..." she blushed a little. "Oh... never mind."

"What?" he asked.

"Well, if circumstances would have been different, if... you know... there could've been anything between us."

"I guess we'll never know," Jake said.

"I guess not," she said with a hint of sadness.

She reached forward and gave him a big hug, wrapping her arms around his back. He put his arms around her waist, feeling the softness of her skin beneath her shirt, feeling her breasts pushing into his chest, smelling the scent of her vanilla wafting up through the sharper odor of cigarette smoke. She looked up at him, her brown eyes sparkling, staring into his. And then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips, lingering there for a few seconds. It was a kiss that made him tremble.

Slowly she pulled her lips away, a melancholy smile on her face, her arms still around him.

"What was that for?" he asked her, his voice not quite steady.

"I just wanted to see what a first kiss with you might've been like," she said. "Now I know."

"And what did you think?" he asked.

She released the embrace but didn't move away from him. She reached up and ran her index finger through his long hair for a second. "It was very nice," she said. "I'm glad I did it."

"Me too," Jake told her.

They went back inside. Jake didn't talk to her again the rest of the night.

In all, there were three hundred and sixteen guests at Celia and Greg's wedding ceremony (Greg's publicist would later describe the affair as a "small, intimate ceremony with just a few close friends in attendance"). Most of these were on the groom's side. There were dozens of famous actors and actresses and their significant others. There were movie producers, directors, and a few odd make-up artists and crew members. There were only a few members of Greg's family on this side of the room. His mother and sister were there and two people he identified as cousins. He was estranged from his father for reasons he had never explained to either Jake or Celia and his older brother had elected not to come for reasons that were also unexplained.

Celia's side of the room, by contrast, had very few famous people. No one from Aristocrat Records had bothered to show up and the only other professional musicians in the group were Jake and the other members of La Diferencia. Most of the pews on this side of the room were taken up by Celia's family and close friends from Barquisimeto (all of whom had been flown in for the occasion at Greg's expense). There were grandmothers, grandfathers, and one great-grandmother. There were cousins and uncles galore. There were half a dozen members of the church Celia had attended as a child, including her former choir teacher. There were three women and two men who had been childhood playmates of Celia.

In addition to the guests, there was a complete photography crew from People magazine in attendance. They had paid fifty thousand dollars for the exclusive right to photograph the nuptials and distribute them in their magazine. They flitted here and there, flashing their bulbs and taking pictures of everything and everyone.

Jake and Helen sat on the bride's side of the room. Since Jake was to be part of the ceremony, they were in the second row, just behind the seats for the immediate family. Jake was wearing one of his custom tailored tuxedos. Helen was adorned in a royal blue dress that had cost $2800 in the Rodeo Drive shop where they'd bought it. It was modest, falling to just below her knees and displaying only the very top of her cleavage. Only Jake knew that beneath it she was wearing a pair of silk stockings attached to a garter belt.

At Celia's insistence, the ceremony itself was a traditional contemporary Catholic wedding. This was to please her family, she had confided in Jake at one point, and not because she or Greg were practicing Catholics. The priest entered the room first. He was decked out in full regalia and held a large, leather bound bible in his hands. The organ played soft music and Greg's groomsmen entered the room, walking slowly down the aisle. The groomsmen escorted Greg's mother, Celia's mother, and Celia's grandparents to their seats at the front of the room. They then retreated back out of the room, only to return a minute later with the bridesmaids on their arms.

"Nice dresses," Helen whispered to Jake.

As far as bridesmaid dresses went, they were pretty attractive. They were floor length, rose red gowns that left the shoulders bare. All of Celia's bridesmaids were friends from Venezuela and had dark complexions that contrasted very nicely with the color of the gowns.

The groomsmen and the bridesmaids separated and took their positions before the altar. Next, the best man and the maid of honor entered the room. Greg's best man was Michael Stinson, his co-star in the last movie he'd made. Celia's maid of honor was Gloria Dominquez, the girl who had been her best friend during her high school days. These two walked arm in arm to the altar (Gloria had been in awe of the fact that she got to touch Michael Stinson all throughout the rehearsal last night) and then separated and took their positions.

The flower girl came next. She was a young cousin of Celia's, about six years old, and absolutely adorable in her red dress. She scattered rose petals around the aisle in advance of the bride.

The Wedding March began to play. The priest asked that everyone please stand in honor of the bride. Everyone stood and turned toward the back. Celia entered the room, escorted by her tuxedoed father. She was quite stunningly beautiful, decked out in a traditional white wedding dress that had been designed by Versace himself (or Himself, as Greg liked to put it). The dress had cost more than twenty thousand dollars and it fit to absolute perfection.

"Look at her," Helen whispered. "She's gorgeous."

Jake simply nodded. Helen was correct.

Celia took her place at the altar. The priest asked who gave this woman and Celia's father replied that he and her mother did. Her father then took his seat and the ceremony began in earnest.

It went on for more than forty minutes before they started to get to the good part. The priest read passages from the bible, he expounded upon the religious implications of the holy union of matrimony, and every few minutes he would say, "let us pray" and everyone would lower their heads while he talked to Our Father. Every few minutes apart from that, he would say, "please rise" and, once they did, he would recite some other passage from the bible and follow it up with a "you may be seated". Finally, just when Jake was starting to think he wouldn't be able to stifle a yawn any longer, the exchange of the vows began. When that was done, the priest asked each of them if they took the other in holy matrimony.

"I do," said Celia, looking shyly at Greg.

"I do," said Greg when it was his turn.

They exchanged rings and then the priest told them they were man and wife. Greg kissed his bride and quiet applause rippled through the room.

"And now," said the priest, "a dear friend of the couple, Mr. Jake Kingsley, will perform a song he has written in honor of this union. As we found out last night at the rehearsal, this song has never been performed before another person before. Celia, Greg, and all of you will now enjoy it for the very first time." He looked at Jake. "Mr. Kingsley?"

Jake gave a brief smile to Helen and then stood up. He walked slowly to a spot just beside the altar and pulled up a Fender electric/acoustic guitar from hiding behind a section of latticework. The guitar was plugged into a guitar cord that ran discretely off to a small soundboard that was plugged into the facility's speakers. Jake had sound checked and tuned the guitar earlier that day, before the arrival of the guests. He pulled a pick from the inlay and walked up to the small microphone the priest, Greg, and Celia had been using.

Jake spoke no introductory words, nor did he give a warm-up strum of the strings. He simply began to play, picking out a soft, gentle eight note rhythm that was both soothing and captivating. He sang into the microphone, using his voice to its best advantage, singing of love and beginnings and compromise and contentment. There were two verses with a chorus in between that spoke of the "start of the journey" that a married couple was embarking upon. There was a brief bridge, during which he upped the tempo the slightest bit, displaying a considerable amount of flair with his instrument and getting a good many feet tapping. Finally, there was a final verse that led to an abbreviated version of the main chorus with a subtle changing of the lyrics.

"The start of the journey," he finished up, "begins... right... here."

He did a brief final flourish of his strings and then let the last strum fade to nothing.

The applause for this performance was much louder than that which had been offered when Greg and Celia had been declared man and wife. The guests, in fact, gave him a standing ovation. Jake saw with satisfaction that more then a few female eyes (and even the odd male eye) were leaking tears from his song. He gave a shy smile to the crowd, acknowledging the applause, and then carried the guitar back to its hiding place and set it down.

He turned and looked at the bride and groom. Celia was crying, wiping the tears from her eyes. Even Greg looked a little choked up. Greg stepped forward and shook his hand warmly.

"Thank you, Jake," he told him. "That was very moving."

"Yes," Celia agreed, pulling him into a spontaneous hug and planting a kiss on his cheek. "It was beautiful. We couldn't have asked for anything better."

"It was my pleasure," Jake told them. "Congratulations to both of you."

The reception began soon after. Little by little the guests all wandered into the next room where a bandstand, an open bar, and dozens of white clothed tables awaited. Each table had a vase of red roses, a bottle of red wine, a bottle of white wine, and a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne chilling in an ice bucket. A large table for the wedding presents was set up near the back of the room. Jake and Helen found their places at a table near the center of the room. They were seated with one of Celia's uncles, his wife, and their two teenage children.

"Do you know Bigg-G?" was the first thing one of the kids asked Jake.

It was almost an hour before the new bride and groom made their entrance. Everyone went through the reception line to take turns shaking Greg's hand and kissing Celia on the cheek. This took another hour. Finally, dinner was served. It was prime rib or Peking duck. Jake and Helen both had the prime rib, drinking glasses of red wine with it.

Jake managed to get one rum and coke into his stomach before the toasting began. The champagne was opened and poured but was halfway to being warm before anyone got to drink any of it because Michael Stinson gave a toast to the new groom that was nearly fifteen minutes in length. When we finally wound down, Greg's mother and sister each offered lengthy toasts as well. A few of Greg's other friends then chimed in their two cents worth. Finally, at long last, everyone who wanted to offer a toast had had their say and they moved on to the throwing of the bouquet and the garter. Two of Celia's cousins were the catchers of these items.

Celia and Greg then cut the wedding cake � a four-tiered number that had cost $4000 � and took turns feeding it to each other. The rest of the guests were then allowed to have a piece as well.

When the cake dishes were taken away, the dancing began. The live band wasn't bad, but they weren't all that great either. They played mellow wedding reception classics while Celia and Greg did the traditional first dance as a married couple, as Celia and her dad danced, and as Celia and her brother danced. Finally, open dancing began and the band started to play faster tunes with more of a beat to them. The couples flooded out onto the dance floor one by one until it was crowded with well dressed bodies.

"C'mon, babe," Jake said, standing and taking Helen's hand. "Let's do it."

Helen wasn't the best dancer Jake had ever shaken his booty with. In fact, she was one of the worst. She liked music and liked physical activity but did not seem to possess much of a sense of rhythm. And, since she knew she wasn't good at it, she always felt like people were watching her, which tended to make her restrict her moves to the point where she was almost standing still, her feet never leaving the floor. This, of course, ended up attracting more attention than if she'd just let it all hang out.

"Oh... Jake," she said. "You know I hate dancing."

"The only way to get better is to keep practicing," he told her, tugging on her hand again. "I told you, just dance like no one is watching."

She refused to get up. "Not in these heels," she said firmly. "And not with a freakin' photographer from People magazine floating around."

Jake knew she was not going to give in. She had her stubborn expression on her face. The best he could hope for here was a compromise. "Okay," he said, acquiescing, "but will you at least dance the slow ones with me?"

"Jake, these heels and this dress..."

"You don't have a hair on your ass if you don't," he told her.

It was an insult she couldn't abide. "Okay," she said. "The slow dances only. Are you happy?"

"Ecstatic," he told her. He turned to Celia's fifteen-year-old cousin who was sitting next to Helen. "Come on, Margarita," he said, holding out his hand to her. "You're not afraid to be seen with me, are you?"

She looked at the hand, her eyes wide. Finally, she said, "No way, Jake. Let's go!" She took his hand and he led her out onto the crowded floor where they twisted and turned to the beat of Simply Irresistible and then Shakin' It Loose Tonight.

Once he was seen dancing with one Valdez female, the floodgates opened and a constant stream of them approached him on each subsequent song. He danced with Celia's sister, her aunt, her mother (who had moves that her younger relatives could only stand in awe of), and more cousins than he could count. Fortunately, he had recently come off tour and was still used to jumping around for more than an hour at a time without rest. He did not get winded but he did start to sweat pretty good after the first thirty minutes. By the time the first slow dance started up and Helen took her place on the floor with him, his undershirt was damp and he had discarded the overcoat and the bow tie.

"You're quite the hit with Celia's family," Helen told him as they moved slowly to the beat of the wedding band's version of How Am I Supposed To Live Without You? "I haven't seen nearly as many of them dancing with Greg or with Michael Stinson."

"I have international appeal," Jake told her, leaning in and giving her a brief kiss on the lips.

"I think you're gonna have a lot of Venezuelan females putting their hands in their panties tonight while they imagine your sweaty body against them."

"Any American females?" he asked innocently, earning a knee into his lower leg.

As soon as the slow song ended, the band launched into a particularly fast number that Jake knew well. It was one of his songs: Living By The Law from the first Intemperance album. It was strangely ironic that Jake himself would be in breach of contract if he were to perform the song for this crowd but that the marginal wedding band could do it with impunity.

"I am so out of here," Helen said as she heard the opening riff.

"Chicken," Jake called after her as she fled.

Helen was quickly replaced by another Valdez. This time it was Celia herself.

"My cousins have all been bragging about you," she told him. "So let's see what you got."

He smiled at her. "At least I'm familiar with the beat for this one."

Even in a bulky wedding gown and with awkward heels on her feet, Celia was an incredible dancer. She moved her body in exacting tempo with the rhythm of the song, all the while managing to keep the swell of her breasts exactly six inches from Jake's chest. The two of them touched hands a few times, shaking their butts, moving their feet, moving back and forth without ever running into another set of dancers. During the guitar solo (which the wedding band guitar player absolutely mangled � Matt might very well have kicked his ass had he been there to hear it), they turned away from each other, their backs together, their hands touching in the air above their heads while their hips shook in unison. This delighted the other dancers who saw them and they broke into spontaneous applause when the move concluded. The two singers turned back around to face each other and did a few more moves, including a spin and then a double reverse spin just as the final crescendo of the song began. When it was over they shared a brief hug.

"That was great, Jake," Celia squealed as they made their way off the floor.

"You weren't too bad yourself," he replied.

"My turn! My turn!" yelled one of the Valdez cousins, this one a sixteen year old who was very well developed for her age and who was wearing a dress that The Vatican probably wouldn't have approved of.

"Hon," Jake told her wearily, "I gotta rest for a few minutes. I promise you'll be next."

"Awww," she complained. "No fair!"

"Life isn't fair, Anna," Celia said to her. "Hasn't anyone told you that yet?"

Anna responded in Spanish. Celia looked shocked at what she said but got over it quickly and giggled. "No," she said, and then followed it up with an extended burst of rapid fire Spanish of her own. Anna giggled back, told Jake she would see him later, and then wandered off.

"What was that all about?" Jake asked.

"She asked me if I'd ever seen you naked."

"She did not," Jake said.

"She did," Celia insisted. "I told her 'no, I never have'."

"Uh huh. 'No, I never have' is four words. You said at least twenty back to her."

"Sometimes it takes more words to get across a simple concept in Spanish," Celia said.

"You're a horrible liar," he told her. "Give it up. What did you say?"

"Just what I said," Celia told him, smiling.

"I'll ask her," Jake said. "And you know she'll tell me. No teenage girl can resist my charms."

Celia blushed a little. "Okay," she said. "I told her, 'no, I have not, but if I wasn't married and he wasn't with Helen, that might've changed after that dance you just gave me'."

Jake laughed. "My my, Celia," he said. "It seems you're not the innocent little virgin the press likes to portray you as."

"I guess not," she said, giggling again. "Come on. Let's go get a drink. I think it's time I started tying one on."

Jake danced two more times with Helen, at least ten more times with various Valdez women (including Anna, who not-so-subtly suggested that she would be willing to slip away into a dark storage room with him somewhere), but no more with Celia. True to her word, Celia began pounding down Long Island iced teas like prohibition was going to be reinstated in the morning and was soon a giggling, happy drunk. She hugged anyone who walked within five feet of her, including one of the People magazine photographers.

At last, the final stage of the reception came. The happy couple was pelted with rice as they emerged from the reception hall. They climbed into the back of a limousine that had been decorated with Just Married signs and had cans tied to the back bumper. They were not going far, just to the other side of the resort where the honeymoon suite had been reserved for them. Early the next morning they were flying out of Logan to Zurich, where they would start a two-week tour of Scandinavia.

Jake watched the limo pull away, Helen at his side, his hand intertwined with hers. He watched until the taillights disappeared, feeling a strange sense of regret that he didn't understand.

Logan International Airport, Boston

June 16, 1989

Jake and Helen left the first class lounge and boarded the DC-10 at 10:27 AM the day after Celia's wedding. Jake was refreshed and well-rested but Helen was suffering from a nasty hangover. While Jake had been dancing the night away with Celia's relatives, Helen had been swilling down Dom Perignon and white wine. They were dressed in their casual traveling clothes of jeans and T-shirts, both of them with dark glasses on their eyes in the vain hope they wouldn't be recognized.

"You want the window seat?" Jake asked Helen as the flight attendant led them to their assigned places. They were in row one of the first class section, the two seats directly behind the cockpit area.

"No, you take it," she said. "I have a feeling I'll have to make a few trips to the bathroom."

Jake chuckled. "I told you never to mix drinks, didn't I?"

"Oh shut the fuck up," she replied, causing a well-dressed middle-age woman behind them to gasp in shock at the foul language.

Jake settled into the spacious and comfortable window seat, reclining it just a hair and stretching his legs, which were a little sore from all the dancing. Helen simply slumped down. She pulled her seatbelt tight around her middle and then leaned her head against Jake's shoulder.

"You gonna be okay?" he asked.

"Once this flight's over with I will be," she said. "Flying commercial is bad enough. Doing it with a hangover is even worse."

It still amazed Jake sometimes that Helen, though an experienced pilot, was scared of flying on jetliners. Though the two of them had flown first class commercial many times over the past year, on long hauls to New Zealand, Japan, England, and shorter hauls all over the European continent, she was always tense and nervous from the time she entered a large aircraft until the time it touched down at their destination.

"Too many parts in these things," she always said. "Too many things that can go wrong. Incompetent pilots, incompetent mechanics, incompetent air traffic controllers, or incompetent engineering. One little thing goes wrong, it can start a cascade that will bring the whole plane down. And you don't survive crashes in jetliners. Not very often anyway."

Jake had tried using logic with her. He had reminded her that more than ten thousand flights took off from United States airports every day of every year and that there was a spectacular plane crash maybe once every three or four years on average. Those were pretty good odds, about the best you could get in the travel industry. He tried to point out that far more small aircraft crashed � usually with lethal results � than large ones. None of that mattered to Helen.

"I know my mechanic," she said. "I know my air traffic controllers. Most importantly, I know me and my machine. If something goes wrong, it's my fault and I'll take responsibility for my death. Up in a jetliner, I'm nothing but a sheep strapped into a seat and hoping that everyone involved knows what the fuck they're doing."

"You want a drink?" Jake asked her when the stewardess began making her pre-flight rounds (this was one of the advantages of flying first class � you could drink while the coach section was still sitting in the boarding lounge). Drinking a few potent beverages was Helen's usual way of dealing with her fear.

She gave him an evil look. "Don't even mention alcohol to me," she said. "I'll just have to ride this one out. At least if the plane crashes it'll put an end to this damn headache and nausea."

Jake had to agree with this logic. "I guess every cloud does have a silver lining." He then ordered a double bloody Mary for himself.

Helen sat with her eyes closed and Jake sipped his drink while the rest of the plane boarded. It was just enough to give him a pleasant warmth in his stomach. After the plane was sealed up and backed out of the terminal, he opened one of the in-flight magazines and began to flip through it, paying absolutely no attention as the flight attendant went through her litany of safety instructions and demonstrations of the oxygen masks and the life jackets.

When they reached the end of the runway and the captain announced impending take-off, Helen reached over and grasped Jake's hand. Take-off was the part she hated the most, when the aircraft was full of fuel and one of any ten thousand things could go wrong.

The roar of the engines wound up and they began to lumber down the runway, slowly but surely picking up speed. The nose came up and there was a thump as the landing gear left the runway. The ground dropped away beneath them and they banked to the right, a turn designed to keep them from flying over a residential area and bothering the rich people who lived there with engine noise.

There was a whine from beneath them as the gear retracted. The turn leveled out and the nose came down into a less steep angle of descent, making it feel for a few seconds like they were actually descending. Jake glanced out the window to the ground below. He saw freeway interchanges and thousands of rooftops. His eyes, now experienced in the ways of flight, told him they were at about six thousand feet or so, and still climbing.

Suddenly the routine ascent became un-routine. From the right side of the aircraft a peculiar whine began, increasing in pitch until it was almost a scream.

"What the fuck?" Helen said, her eyes flying open, her body suddenly tense.

Jake opened his mouth to offer some soothing words � although the sound was definitely not something he'd ever heard a jet airliner make before � and closed it again when the entire plane began to shake and shudder.

An excited babble erupted from the passengers. There were a few mild screams.

"What's happening?" someone behind them yelled out. "What is that?"

A loud bang erupted from the right side. The plane jolted again and the nose dropped alarmingly. At the same moment, Jake felt the entire aircraft pull severely to the right. The cabin erupted into panicked screams this time.

"Jake! Oh my God!" Helen yelled, her hand squeezing his hard enough to cause pain.

Jake felt a burst of adrenaline go shooting through his body. He looked out his window at the wing and there, he saw the most terrifying thing of his life. The engine mounted to that wing was billowing black smoke and flame, leaving a trail behind it.

Son of a bitch, Jake's mind thought in horrified wonder. I'm going to die in a plane crash. Isn't that the most clich� way for a rock star to go?

Posted: 13.04.2007, 17:07:41

Jake's urge to panic was very great as he stared at the smoke and flame billowing from the engine on the right wing, as he felt the seemingly uncontrolled yaw to the right, as he felt the nose of the aircraft starting to drop. Panic seemed a perfectly natural response. Based on the screams of the passengers around him, based on the painful way that Helen was clutching his arm and the terrified whine coming from her lips, it seemed like panic was all the rage. He very nearly succumbed to it.

But then the yaw suddenly stopped, returning strictly forward flight to the vehicle. The nose came back up a little, settling them into a gentle climb. The other two engines continued to roar comfortingly, kicking up a little in noise level, but sounding otherwise normal. Jake took another look at the engine on the right wing just in time to see it enveloped by a cloud of white vapor. This cloud went on for ten seconds or so. When it cleared, the engine was still smoking but was no longer aflame. Slowly, he began to realize that catastrophe was not exactly imminent. Though he understood that something had gone terribly wrong with the aircraft he was in, and though he had never wanted so badly to be on the ground as he wanted it right at that moment, he began to think that maybe things were going to be all right.

"We lost an engine," Jake said to Helen, his voice soothing. "That's why we nosed down and turned to the right like that."

"Whu... whu... what?" Helen blabbered.

"C'mon, hon," he said. "You're the flight instructor. Logic it out. You lose your right side engine on a DC-10 during a climb and you've suddenly lost a third of your thrust. Your nose is gonna drop when that happens. And the plane is gonna yaw right because the remaining thrust suddenly becomes uneven. They're under control now. You feel it?"

Helen raised her head up from Jake's shoulder and looked around carefully. There was no smoke in the cabin, no more shuddering of the airframe, and it was obvious they were indeed under controlled flight. "What happened to the engine?" she asked.

"It blew," Jake said. "There was smoke and flame from it but it's out now."

"It is?"

"It is," he confirmed. "I saw them use the extinguisher on it."

"What if that's not all that's wrong?" she asked. "Remember what I'm always telling you. Planes go down because of a chain of events. What if this was just the first link in the chain? What if..."

"Helen," he said, pulling her against him. "I think you..."

The pilot suddenly came on the intercom, interrupting him. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice sounding calm, cool, collected, almost cheery, as if this sort of thing happened every day, "I apologize for that little bout of excitement we just had and I'd like to assure everyone that everything is under control up here. We lost the number three engine just as we were climbing through sixty-five hundred feet. That was that whine and that bang you all heard and it was also the reason for that momentary change of attitude and direction we experienced.

"We have shut that engine down and used the built-in extinguisher to smother the flames that were coming from it. Now, we don't know why that engine blew and it's really not important at this particular moment. We do, however, have two other engines and, as you can hear, they are both running just fine. As far as we can tell, no other part of the aircraft suffered any sort of damage.

"Our plan is to return to Logan airport as quickly as possible and get you all back on the ground. Before we can do that, however, we need to get rid of some of our fuel or otherwise the aircraft will be heavier than we really want for an optimum landing. So what we're going to do is level off at twelve thousand feet and go out over the Atlantic Ocean. Once we're sure that all other aircraft are out of our way, we're going to jettison about sixty thousand pounds of jet fuel from the wing tanks. This will take about fifteen minutes or so. Once we're lightened up, we'll turn around and be vectored in for a direct approach to Logan.

"At this particular moment in time, though we have declared an emergency due to the circumstances, I see no reason why we shouldn't have a perfectly safe and normal landing in about thirty-five minutes or so.

"Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience and will remind everyone to please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened."

The captain's soothing words, and, more importantly, the continued smooth and controlled flight of the aircraft, served to calm the passengers considerably. The screams and cries faded away. Jake's heart returned to an almost normal rate. The adrenaline slowly leeched from his bloodstream. Even Helen calmed down. She did not release the grip on his arm, but she did at least loosen it up a little.

"You okay?" Jake asked her.

"I'll be okay when my feet are on the ground again," she said. "Jesus Christ. Thirty-five more minutes in this thing? That's thirty-five more minutes that something can go wrong in."

It actually took forty-three minutes. After the plane leveled out over the Atlantic Ocean, Jake watched out his window at the wing tip and was rewarded with the sight of thousands of gallons of jet fuel streaming off behind them.

"Take a look at this, Helen," he said. "This is definitely something you don't see every day."

Her face was looking a little green. "Pass," she said blandly. "Just tell me when this is over."

Sixteen and a half minutes after the dumping procedure began, it was over. Jake felt the aircraft banking slowly to the left, making a lazy circle back toward Boston and the safety of the airport.

The descent was normal and uneventful. Even so, Helen jumped when the sound of the landing gear deploying reached her ears.

"It's okay," Jake told her soothingly, still holding her against his body. "It's just the gear coming down."

"I know that," she said, a little defensively.

The ground grew closer and closer and, finally, they were over the runway. They thumped down in a perfectly normal fashion except for the applause and the collective sigh of relief that filled the cabin. The pilot did not utilize the reverse thrusters, probably, Jake figured, out of fear that uneven reverse thrust would make the aircraft swerve off the runway. This made their roll out rather long, but at no time did they seem out of control. When they reached the end of the runway, Jake saw out the window that dozens of fire engines, crash trucks, and two ambulances were standing by in a staging area. The plane rolled down the taxiway and came to a stop about two hundred yards from the main terminal.

"And we're down, ladies and gentlemen," the captain told them cheerfully. "Everything seems to remain in order so there will be no emergency evacuation of the aircraft. Unfortunately, do to the fact that there was a small fire in the number three engine, we cannot park at the terminal. They are bringing a set of stairs to the main entrance door and as soon as it is in place we will have all of you exit the aircraft in the normal fashion. Please take your carry-on baggage and all personal belongings with you when you leave. Your luggage will be removed and taken to the terminal. I am told that another DC-10 is already on the way from New York City and we should have all of you back in the air in less than two hours."

"Not bloody fucking likely," Helen muttered. Her sentiment was shared by several other people as well.

"Once again," the captain continued, "I apologize for the excitement and for the inconvenience. As a gesture of goodwill, the airline will be issuing a credit to every passenger onboard that is good for one round trip flight anywhere in the continental United States that we fly."

"That's very big of them," Helen said. "They nearly kill us and now they give us a free flight on another one of their fucked up airplanes."

"Helen," Jake said, "it really wasn't that big of a deal. We lost an engine. We're down and safe now."

"Yeah," she said, her eyes still wide and scared. "This time."

The first thing they did upon entering the terminal building was go to the bar in the first class lounge and order a couple of stiff drinks. They then went and found a table to drink them at. Jake lit a cigarette, drawing deeply, feeling the soothing nicotine rush to his head.

"Give me one of those," Helen demanded, reaching for the pack that sat on the table.

"You don't smoke," Jake reminded her.

"I do now," she said. She lit up, inhaled, coughed violently for a few moments, and then took another drag.

"You're gonna make yourself sick," Jake told her.

"I'm already sick," she said, picking up her drink. It was a double whiskey and coke. She swallowed half of it without moving the glass from her lips.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Jake asked her.

"No," she said. "Jake, that scared me."

"Well... it scared me too," he said. "When that engine first went up and I felt that yaw and the nose drop, I thought it was my ass, but it's over now. We're safe."

"They want us to just jump on another one their planes in two hours, Jake!" she said. "Another fucking DC-10, no less."

Jake shrugged. He had already put the entire incident into perspective. "That's a good thing, Helen," he told her.

"What do you mean it's a good thing?" she demanded.

"We were just in a plane that had a mechanical failure," he said. "What are the odds that it would happen to us twice in the same day? They're astronomical! That plane that's coming to get us is pretty much the safest goddamn flight in the world, statistically speaking."

"That does not comfort me," she said.

"It should," he said. "In fact, if you think about it, we're probably safe on commercial airliners for the rest of our lives now. How many people, no matter how much they fly, ever have anything like that happen to them even once? Very few. I'd be willing to bet that no one has ever had it happen twice."

"That's false logic and you know it," she said. "I am not getting on that plane."

Jake took a long sip of his drink, a deep drag of his smoke, trying to think this through. Helen had the stubborn expression on her face and he knew that changing her mind about this would be difficult. "Are you going to stay in Boston forever?" he finally asked her.

She sighed, taking another drag from her smoke, coughing, and then grinding it out in the ashtray. "No," she said. "That's not really feasible, is it?"

"Not really," he agreed.

"Can we at least stay here today?" she asked. "Can you get us another flight tomorrow on a different airline? On a different kind of airplane?"

He nodded. "Sure, we can do that," he said. "Hell, we'll go private. I'll get us a Lear lined up and we'll..."

She was shaking her head violently. "Not private," she said. "Those little Lear jets are even bigger deathtraps than the airliners. Just get us on a 747 or something � anything but a DC-10."

He reached over and took her hand. "Okay," he told her. "I'll start working on it."

It turned out that Helen wasn't the only one unwilling to just jump on another flight as if nothing had happened. Almost half of the passengers elected to stay overnight in Boston instead of continuing on. The airline was very sympathetic. The ticket agents were apologetic and helpful as they refunded the cost of the flight and they even helped Jake book two seats on another airline for mid-morning the next day.

"If you'd like," the smiling agent offered when Jake finished his transaction, "we can book you in one of the rooms at the hotel airport. It'll be on us."

"Thanks," Jake said graciously, "but I'll get my own room."

He did. He called the Boston Hilton and, after a few minutes of conversation and the recitation of his Visa number, secured the Presidential Suite for them. He then asked that they arrange for an immediate limousine pick-up from the airport.

"Of course, sir," the reservation clerk told him. "I'll have one on the way in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you," Jake said. He told her what terminal they would be at and hung up.

Helen, meanwhile, fueled by three more stiff drinks, had pulled herself together enough to collect their luggage and get it to a skycap.

One hour later, they were sitting in their hotel room, looking out at Boston Harbor. They drank the bottle of complimentary wine that had been left in the room and then, overcome by a horniness that was only possible after experiencing a near-death episode, spent the next two hours lustily fucking, sucking, and otherwise pleasuring each other in as many different ways as they could think of. Both agreed afterward � before dropping off into a deep and contented sleep � that it was the best sex they'd ever shared with each other.

Jake woke up around four o'clock that afternoon, feeling out of sorts but otherwise refreshed. He went to the bathroom and urinated and then, still naked, walked into the main sitting room and grabbed a seat on the couch. He turned on the television, flipping through it for a few minutes and finding nothing he wanted to watch. With nothing else to do, he started wondering what they were going to do tonight. He had been to Boston before � every tour he'd ever been a part of had passed through Boston � but he'd never really had time to explore it. Surely there was something to do here, wasn't there?

He started exploring some of the drawers in the room's various furnishings and, inside the desk, found a book entitled: Things To Do in Boston. He opened it up and began flipping through it, checking out the restaurants and the clubs.

An entry for a place called The Firelight Lounge caught his eye. It was touted as Boston's best live music venue, featuring all the up and coming bands from the New England region. It was claimed that the legendary Boston themselves had played there many times prior to making it big. The advertisement promised that the club featured live music every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday night.

"And it's Friday night," Jake said with a smile, finding the idea of going out and catching a live band more appealing by the minute. Sure, they'd probably be a bunch of hackers, but music was still music. And going out and getting tanked in a downtown bar would be just the thing to get Helen's mind off their impending flight tomorrow.

Helen woke up thirty minutes later and was initially resistant to his plans. She didn't want to go out in public. She just wanted to stay in the room, order dinner from room service, and stew in her irrational fear. But finally, after working on her for half an hour or so, she agreed to go out with him.

They got dressed in casual clothes and took a cab to a seafood restaurant downtown. There, they enjoyed live Maine lobster and two bottles of a decent chardonnay. The wine helped mellow Helen out a little bit. She stopped fretting about how they'd almost died and even managed to laugh a few times.

From there, they took another cab to the Fireside Lounge. Upon arrival, they found that the lounge was crowded, so crowded, in fact, that about a hundred people were waiting outside, unable to get in until someone inside decided to leave. Jake saw this and started to climb back into the cab, his intent to ask the cabbie to take them to another night club � surely there had to other places to go in Boston on a Friday night � but before they could make good their escape, the crowd spotted them. Within seconds, the two of them were surrounded by college age men and women asking the typical questions and demanding autographs.

When things quieted down a little, a young, long-haired stoner type asked Jake if he had come to see Brainwash.

Jake had noted the name Brainwash on the club's marquee when they'd pulled up. Other than that, however, he had never heard of them. He told the young stoner as much.

"Oh, dude," the young stoner proclaimed. "You fuckin' gotta check 'em out. They're gnarly."

"Gnarly, huh?" Jake said. "I do kind of like their name."

"Yeah, ain't it bitchin', man?" the young stoner said. "It's even more bitchin' when you know they're all teachers."

"Teachers?" Jake asked.

"Hell yeah, dude," the young stoner said. "You get it? Teachers... Brainwash. They're acknowledging that they're agents of the fuckin' state whose job it is to indoctrinate the youth of America into corporate whores, dude! Isn't that fuckin' tight?"

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "That is pretty fuckin' tight. Do you mean they're actual teachers?"

"Yep," he said. "All five of them. They work for the Providence school district teaching in high schools."

"Marcie teaches in a junior high school," the young stoner's girlfriend interjected. "Remember?"

"Oh yeah," the young stoner said. "That's right. Anyway, they teach school during the school year and practice their fuckin' tunes on the weekends. And then, during the summer, they play the clubs all over New England. People fuckin' love 'em, dude. I've seen 'em four times now and they're bad-ass."

There was general agreement from the crowd at this statement.

"They sound pretty interesting," Jake admitted. "Unfortunately, it doesn't look like we're going to be able to get in."

"Oh fuck that shit, dude," the young stoner said. "You're fuckin' Jake Kingsley! They'll let you in. They gotta!"

Jake expressed the opinion that cutting to the front of the line wasn't fair to everyone who had arrived beforehand. The young stoner scoffed at this idea. So did the majority of the crowd. They obviously wanted Jake to see Brainwash. They practically dragged Jake and Helen up the steps of the club to the two bouncers guarding the entrance and, as speculated, the two bouncers let them in without hesitation and without collecting the eight dollar cover charge.

"We can always make room for you and your guest, Mr. Kingsley," one of them said. "Especially if you came to see Brainwash."

They followed one of the bouncers inside. The nightclub was as crowded as D Street West had always been during the height of Intemperance's club days. The bar was packed with people three deep, every table was full, and most of the standing room was occupied by men and women between the ages of eighteen and twenty. Rock music played through the overhead sound system and a small stage was set up on the far side of the room. The sights, sounds, and smells triggered a powerful sense of nostalgia in Jake, bringing him back to his own club days, when they had played for peanuts just for the sheer joy of it, back before the realities of the life of a professional musician had been forced home to them.

"Let me introduce you to Mr. Meyer," the bouncer said, leading them through the crowd and through a small door near the bathrooms. They went down a short hallway and stopped at an office door. The bouncer knocked, was allowed entry, and he led them inside a small office where a stuffy looking man with a bad comb-over sat behind a desk with a computer terminal on it. The man's eyes looked up at their entry and then widened as he recognized Jake.

"Mr. Meyer," the bouncer said. "Jake Kingsley and his girlfriend decided to pay us a visit tonight to check out Brainwash. I thought you'd like to know."

"Yes, yes indeed," Meyer said, standing so fast he bashed his knees on his desk. "Thank you for bringing them in, John."

"No problem, Mr. Meyer," John said. "Anything else I can do?"

"You can grab a small table out of storage and set it up near center stage for Mr. Kingsley and his guest," Meyer said. "Guard it and don't let anyone sit there."

"You got it," John said.

"Really, Mr. Meyer," Jake said. "That's not necessary. We can find out own place to hang out."

"I won't hear of it," Meyer said. He turned to John again. "Go."

"Right," John said, leaving the room in a hurry.

"I'm very pleased to meet both of you," Meyer said, coming around the desk and holding out his hand. "I'm Brian Meyer, manager and part-owner of this place."

Jake and Helen both shook hands with him. He then spent the better part of fifteen minutes interrogating them about what they were doing in Boston (he hadn't heard about the Celia Valdez/Greg Oldfellow wedding) and how they had come to find their way to his club. He then asked if Jake would pose for a picture with him. Jake agreed and Helen took the shot. He then asked if they had ever heard of Brainwash before.

"Never," Jake said. "Some of the people outside filled me in on them. Is it true they're all teachers?"

"Very true," Meyer said. "They all work for the Providence Regional School District as educators. They got together a few years ago just for fun and realized they were pretty good together. Only one of them was ever a performing musician before. Do you remember the band Courage? From the early 1980's, I think it was?"

"It sounds vaguely familiar," Jake said.

"They were a one hit wonder band that only put out a single album. You probably remember the one hit in question. It was Going My Way?"

"Oh yeah," Jake said, remembering it now that it was mentioned. It had been a heavily aired song that had come out about two years before Intemperance had put out their first album. It was still played on hard rock stations on occasion, although the actual band was rarely mentioned by the DJs. It had been a good, solid tune, with decent guitar work and respectable vocals. Jake remembered turning up the tune a few times when it came on his radio in the car.

"Jim Scanlon," Meyer said, "was the vocalist for Courage. When their second album sold less than one hundred thousand copies, Aristocrat Records did not pick them up for any more option periods. Since Jim was not allowed to perform until the expiration of the contract, and since he had a bachelor's degree in World History, he picked up his teaching credential and went to work for the Providence School District. It was there that he met his wife, Marcie, who is the keyboard player and one of the other singers for the group. She teaches junior high English these days but has always been a pianist and a keyboardist."

"One of the other singers?" Jake said. "There are two of them?"

"Three actually," Meyer said. "Stephanie Zool is the third. She's the lead guitarist as well."

"A female lead guitarist?" Jake said, surprised.

"She knows her way around a guitar," Meyer said. "Wait until you hear her wail. She's not as good as Matt Tisdale, of course � nobody's that good � but she's certainly no hacker." He lowered his voice and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "She is a lesbian, you know. That's probably why she's so good at guitar playing."

"Because she's a lesbian?" Jake asked, failing to see the logic behind this particular statement.

"Well... we try to keep that quiet," Meyer said. "They are from Providence after all."

"I see," Jake said, trying to puzzle that one out as well.

"Anyway," Meyer continued, "Jim, Marcie, and Stephanie are the heart and soul of the group. They are the primary songwriters. Jim is the main composer. They each sing whatever songs they have written. In a way they're like a modern-day Fleetwood Mac. They do everything from heavy metal tunes � those are usually Jim's � to ballads with nothing but piano accompaniment. They do a lot of three part harmony as well. I honestly think you'll be impressed by them."

"I can't wait to see them," Jake said with sincerity. After everything Meyer and the young stoner outside had told him, he really was interested in hearing this group.

"Why don't you let me introduce you to them?" Meyer offered. "They're backstage now, getting ready for the show. They'd love to know you're here and watching them."

"Any chance we can wait until after the show for that?" Jake asked. "I don't want them to be intimidated by my presence or anything. In fact, I'd prefer you not even tell them I'm here until then."

Meyer nodded at the wisdom of this. "I think that's a good idea, Jake. We'll do that. After the show, just come back to my office. I'll take you backstage to meet them."

"Sounds good," Jake said.

"In the meantime, let's get you to your table. I'm sure you're itching for a drink about now."

"I'm sure you're right," Jake agreed.

Meyer led them back out into the club, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd until they reached a small table with two chairs that had been squeezed in near the front of the stage. John the bouncer was standing next to it, turning away anyone who tried to sit there.

"This table is reserved for a special guest," he would tell them.

Of course it didn't take long for those around the table to see who the special guest in question was. As Meyer pulled out their chair so they could be seated, Jake could hear the excited murmurs from all around them. "It's Jake Kingsley!" "Oh my god, is it really him?" "What's he doing here?"

"Enjoy the show, Jake, Helen," Meyer told them. He waved at one of the cocktail waitresses, a young, bleach blonde woman in a half-shirt and a tight pair of form-fitting jeans. Her eyes widened when she saw who was sitting at the recently installed table.

"Yes, Mr. Meyer?" she asked brightly, nearly drooling with excitement.

"As you can see," Meyer told her, "Jake Kingsley has decided to pay us a visit. Make sure that he and his guest never have an empty glass before them."

"No problem," she said.

"And, of course, their drinks will be on the house."

"Uh... that's not really necessary, Mr. Meyer," Jake said. "I appreciate the offer, but I can pay for our drinks."

"I wouldn't hear of it," Meyer said. "Just tell Cindy here what you want and she'll keep you supplied."

"In that case, we thank you," Jake said.

"Yes... thank you," Helen agreed.

"What can I get you two?" Cindy asked.

Jake ordered a rum and coke. Helen ordered a whiskey sour. Cindy promised they would be in front of them in less than two minutes. She disappeared, pushing her way back toward the bar. Meyer told them once again that if there was anything they needed, just say the word. After they thanked him again, he too disappeared.

The opening band for the night was something called The Low Road. They were slated to begin their show at eight o'clock. From the time Jake and Helen were seated until eight o'clock, when Meyer turned down the house lights and introduced the opening band, they were subjected to an endless stream of young fans who pushed and shoved their way into talking distance in order to score autographs or to just talk to Jake for a few minutes. One young lady, obviously three or four drinks past therapeutic alcohol level, actually propositioned Jake, inviting him to step outside to her car for "a little backseat welcome to Beantown".

Helen, who had been consuming whiskey sours as fast as Cindy the waitress could bring them to her, decided to express her disapproval at the young lady's suggestion. She stood up and stepped directly in front of the drunken youngster, her head towering nearly eight inches higher, her eyes glaring murderously. "Hello, McFly!" she said menacingly, knocking on the young woman's head with her knuckles. "Can't you see that I'm sitting right next to him? Are you really that dumb, or are you such a skanky slut that you just don't care?"

The crowd grew silent for a moment. Jake � who had politely but firmly turned down her offer � said nothing. The drunken young lady seemed to sober up in a hurry. She muttered something inaudible under her breath and retreated as quickly as possible. As soon as she was gone, laughter and even some applause erupted from the crowd. Helen was patted on the shoulder by dozens of women and even a few of the men.

"You go, girl!" she was told.

"About time someone put that bitch in her place," several others chimed in.

When The Low Road took the stage, everyone moved respectfully away from Jake and Helen, finding their way back to their own seats or standing positions. Jake watched the performance impassively, not particularly impressed. The Low Road consisted of four young men in their early twenties. It was obvious that they were heavily influenced by Motley Crue since they wore tight leather pants and open chest leather shirts. The lead singer had a mop of dyed blonde hair that was almost uniformly white. The guitarist, bassist, and drummer all had long hair that had been dyed jet black. They all had pentagram medallions on their chests. If only their music was in the same category as that of Motley Crue � a band that Jake actually liked and had seen live a few times � but they weren't even close. The singer might have had a good voice but it was impossible to tell for sure since the guitar and the drum levels had been cranked to almost ear-shattering range. Throughout the entire set, Jake didn't understand a single lyric that was put forth. And as for the guitar player, he was fond of repetitive, palm-muted chords that sounded suspiciously like poor imitations of Metallica riffs. His solos were simplistic, slow, and usually completely disassociated with the underlying rhythm of the song they were supposed to be enhancing.

All in all, Jake didn't think Intemperance was going to be in competition with The Low Road for album sales any time soon. Nor did the crowd seem particularly awed by them either. The applause they offered between songs was listless at best, a polite clapping of hands that would have seemed more appropriate at a golf tournament instead of a rock concert.

When The Low Road wrapped up their set and began disassembling their equipment from the stage, another surge of fans made their way to Jake and Helen's table. By this point, Helen was roaring drunk and in a foul mood. The very expression on her face kept most of the women from offering Jake anything but polite praise for his music.

At 9:30 PM, the lights went down once again and Meyer introduced Brainwash. This time, the crowd cheered wildly, all of them standing on their feet as the three men and two women of the band took the stage.

Jake had always believed in his heart that the way a band looked had absolutely nothing to do with the quality of their music. His first impression of Brainwash, however, as they settled into their places on the stage, was not a good one. They didn't look like a rock and roll band at all. They looked like exactly what they were: a group of ordinary, everyday teachers � a basic cross-section of the education profession � wearing jeans and pull-over t-shirts instead of teaching clothes. The lead singer was tall, with a little touch of beer belly, his dirty blonde hair a little longer than a professional cut, but not by much. Only the red and white Fender Stratocaster in his hands led any credence to his identity as a musician. The lead guitarist was a plain looking woman with short brown hair and just a hint of a masculine persona. She packed a black and white Hamer Standard guitar � an instrument that Jake knew was very high-end and had probably not come cheaply to her. The keyboardist � who Jake remembered was married to the male lead singer � was a tall, buxom blonde of farm girl proportions, slightly thick around the hips, with moderately large breasts. She had thick glasses perched on her nose and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The bass player and the drummer were both short-haired, accountant-looking types with glasses of their own.

"They look like the geek squad," Helen whispered to Jake, her breath heavily scented with whiskey.

"They do, don't they?" he agreed. "But did you hear the way this crowd cheered for them?"

Jake's initial impression of the band was squashed with the very first song they did. They did not introduce themselves or say anything to the crowd at all. They didn't even have the drummer give a four count with his sticks. They simply began to play. The keyboardist started first, playing a moderate tempo piece on the classic piano setting that came through the sound system crystal clear. She began to sing, her voice a nice, soothing contralto. After her first verse, the guitars kicked in, the lead playing a mildly distorted electric five-chord riff, the rhythm playing a strict acoustic sound. During the choruses of the song � it was apparently called Night Is Falling and Jake interpreted the lyrics to be about a mutual attraction between two people that only occurred in dangerous places after dark � the three singers belted it out in unison utilizing three part harmony. When the solo came, the slightly masculine looking lead guitarist played it to perfection, her fingers dancing knowingly over her fret board, her shoulders swaying easily to the rhythm. As Meyer had said, it was not quite up there with a Matt Tisdale solo, but it was pretty damn good nonetheless.

The next two songs in the set were sung by the male rhythm guitarist. He possessed a strong tenor voice and knew how to use it well. The first piece was a hard-rock tune called All The Way Down that seemed to be about the spiral of mistakes that led to utter failure. The second was called Going Out Tonight, which the singer introduced to the crowd by asking "Are there any single girls out there tonight?", which, of course, led to hundreds of squeals as the single girls chimed in. "This is one I wrote for you," he told them. He then sang a slow, mesmerizing piece, backed up by strong bass and repetitive drum beats, which spoke of the dangers and futility of looking for love in clubs and bars, describing the lengths men would go to and the lies they would tell in order to score with a single woman. It was a poignant and harshly realistic tune that seemed to Jake to be utterly weird coming from the mouth of such a nerdy looking man.

"These guys are pretty good," Jake told Helen while the audience cheered wildly after Going Out Tonight.

"Yeah," Helen agreed, smoking one of Jake's cigarettes again. "They're much better than I thought they'd be."

The slightly masculine looking lead guitarist sang the next song. It was a moderate tempo, three chord piece that was apparently called I'm Gone. Despite her masculine looks, the guitarist possessed a sweet mezzo-soprano voice with impressive range that was capable of dipping into both the full soprano and the contralto ranges. The lyrics of the tune concerned themselves with leaving a bad relationship, just walking away without a glance backward or even explanation.

After the opening set, the band settled in for a five song stretch in which they did nothing but slow ballad pieces. The keyboardist sang two of them, the lead guitarist one, and the male rhythm guitarist one � a deeply touching love song that he dedicated to "that one special woman in my life" as he glanced toward his wife on the keyboards. As the last note faded from the love song, the band launched into a hard-driving heavy metal piece called The Streets Are Calling about the degeneracy and hopelessness that could be found in your typical inner city environment.

The most poignant and straightforward tune of the night, at least in Jake's opinion, was the one that closed out the set. The male singer introduced it as a new song, written in response to "certain hypocrites who sit on certain school boards and think that certain teachers are not fit to do their jobs because they sing about the realities of life on certain stages in the New England region". The song, he told them, was called Accusations. It was another heavy metal based tune with lots of tempo changes. The lyrics were sung with a projection of disgust and hatred toward these "certain hypocrites" that was brilliant and almost chilling in its execution. The crowd agreed with this assessment of the tune. They cheered wildly and offered a standing ovation when the song concluded.

Brainwash came back out on the stage and performed a three-song encore, with each of the singers chiming in for one song apiece. The lead guitarist sang the last tune of the night that seemed to deal with the inequality that women faced in modern society. When it was finished, they received another standing ovation, another loud call for encore, but they adhered to the cardinal rule of performing. They left with their audience wanting more.

Meyer stood up on the stage as soon as the band departed it and thanked the audience for coming. He also reminded them that the members of Brainwash would be circulating throughout the club as soon as they had a chance to cool down and change their clothes. The crowd gave one last cheer and then quieted down. A significant number of them started heading for the exits but the majority elected to stay.

"Can we go now, Jake?" Helen asked, slurring her words quite badly. "I'm getting really sleepy."

Really drunk is more like it, Jake thought but did not say. Through the course of the show, Helen had put away approximately twelve whisky sours and six beers. She had also smoked more than half of Jake's cigarettes. "In a few minutes, hon," he told her. "I'd really like to go and meet the band, if you don't mind."

"You'll make it short?" she asked.

"As short as possible," Jake said. "Come on. Here comes that Meyer character."

"I'll just stay here if it's cool," she said, signaling to Cindy for another drink.

"Suit yourself," Jake told her. He stood and met Meyer near the backstage door.

The sight, smell, and general atmosphere of the band's dressing room brought on another wave of pleasant nostalgia for Jake. Just like the accommodations at D Street West, it was cramped, poorly ventilated, and smelled of sweat and alcohol. The furniture was old and threadbare, the lighting poor. A doorway on the backside was closed but Jake knew it led to a small, cramped bathroom with a dual showerhead with pathetic water pressure and a rusty toilet. The band itself was sitting around on the furniture, still dressed in their stage clothes, drinking bottles of beer from an ice chest that had been set up on a table. Their eyes widened comically when they saw who Meyer was leading into their midst.

"Hey, guys," Meyer greeted them. "Great show tonight. You absolutely rocked. And guess what? We had a very special guest out in the audience tonight."

"Holy shit," exclaimed the male lead singer. The other members of the band all gave their own variations of this statement.

"I'm sure you all know this is Jake Kingsley of Intemperance," Meyer said. "He's in town here for the night and thought he'd come check you out."

Meyer then introduced each member of the band. The male singer and rhythm guitarist was Jim Scanlon. His wife, keyboardist and female lead singer number one, was Marcie Scanlon. Stephanie Zool was the slightly masculine looking lead guitarist and singer number three (and a lesbian, Jake remembered, at least according to Meyer). The bassist was Jeremy White. And the drummer, who seemed almost religiously awed by Jake's presence, was Rick Jackson.

Jake shook hands with each of them and then took a seat on the edge of one of the couches. When he was offered a beer, he did not turn it down. "I have to agree with Mr. Meyer," he told the band. "You guys put on a hell of a show. I was very impressed with you."

"Thank you," they all mumbled in various forms.

It was clear that they were all somewhat intimidated by his presence. They were tongue-tied and fidgety, the two women actually blushing when he praised them. But as they worked their way through the first beer and moved onto the second, and as Jake began to ask them more and more questions about the origins of their songs and the evolution of their band, they started to lighten up a little.

"Jim's the one who convinced us to start playing music together," Stephanie said as she puffed on a cigarette and sipped from her beer. "He used to be with Courage, you know."

"Yeah," Jake said. "Mr. Meyer told me that."

"So anyway, he and Marcie had already been together for almost four years at that point," Stephanie continued.

"We met in college," Marcie added, "when we were in the same classes together working on our teaching credentials."

"That was right after Aristocrat told us they weren't going to pick us up for the rest of the option periods," Jim said. "I was at about the lowest point in my life and then... well... I started dating Marcie and... things just kind of fell into place."

"That love song you wrote for her was very touching," Jake said. "It made Helen get a little weepy at the table."

"I love that song," Marcie said. "He got sooooo laid the first time he played it for me."

Everyone had a laugh over that.

"It's the power of music," Jake said. "I learned about it for the first time when I was sixteen years old and it's served me well ever since."

They took turns narrating the rest of the band's history. Since Jim was still bound by his Aristocrat Records recording contract, he was unable to perform any song in public until it expired, nor would he be allowed to perform any Courage song until 2001. This did not stop him from composing and singing for his own pleasure and for the pleasure of his friends. A big part of his attraction to Marcie was the fact that she held a deep love of music as well and she loved to compose and sing on the piano. It was truly a match made in heaven.

The two of them married shortly after securing jobs with the Providence School District � Jim as a high school History teacher, Marcie as a junior high English teacher. As the years went on, they became friends with Stephanie, who taught Physical Education at Jim's school. The friendship was just casual at first until they discovered that Stephanie was a whiz with an electric guitar.

"My singing and composition have always been my strong points musically," Jim said, "but I was always pretty good with my guitar as well. But when I heard Steph play for the first time..."

"We had to get her drunk and double dare her before she would play for us," Marcie said with a giggle.

"Shut up, whore," Steph said, not unkindly.

"Dyke," Marcie shot right back, causing laughter to erupt from the entire band, Steph included.

"Anyway," Jim went on, "when I found out how good Steph could play, and when I found out that she could sing as well... that's when the idea of getting a band together started to hit me. By this time, my Courage contract had expired and I was free to perform again, so we asked around a little and eventually found Jeremy and Rick. We started out just doing covers of existing songs at weddings and special events and the annual PTA carnival � we even did a few Intemperance tunes, Living By The Law, Descent Into Nothing, and Point Of Futility."

"The school board sure as shit didn't like it when we sang anything by Intemperance at a school function," Stephanie put in.

"No," Jake said, "I don't imagine they did."

"Those tight-assed prudes didn't even know what the songs were about," Jim said. "They just told us that 'satanic death metal' was not the sort of family friendly music they were looking for."

"They wanted us to do fucking John Denver and Barry Manilow shit," Jeremy said with a shake of his head. "They wouldn't even let us do any Elton John because he's gay and they were afraid people would be offended."

"Providence is starting to sound a lot like Cincinnati," Jake observed.

"It's worse," Marcie said. "Much worse. Providence is about the most tight-assed, conservative, bible-thumping city outside of the Deep South. Worse than Salt Lake City even."

"That's saying a lot," said Jake. Salt Lake City, after all, was the only municipality in the nation that had actually succeeded in getting one of Intemperance's concert permits cancelled on grounds of violating local community standards of decency. That had been during the It's In The Book tour and, of course, it had only taken one appeal by National Records' lawyers to get the ruling reversed.

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "There are asses so tight in Providence that it's a wonder the shit can flow as efficiently as it does."

Jake laughed. He was finding that he liked this band on a personal level as well as a musical level.

"So anyway," Jim went on. "We did the cover tune thing for about six months or so and then I started introducing some of the tunes I'd written over the years. When we saw how good we were at putting them together into a coherent form..."

"It's Jim who does that," Steph said. "He's the one that is able to take all of our lyrics and basic melodies and turn them into actual music."

Jim shrugged this off modestly. "I have a gift for that sort of thing," he said, "but everyone helps out. So anyway, once we started putting some of my tunes together, we decided to try some of Marcie's as well. And finally, one night after we'd perfected almost an entire set, we got Steph drunk and she actually put down a few tunes she'd come up with. Until that point, none of us even knew she was a songwriter."

"I didn't think I was very good," Stephanie said softly. "I still don't, although I'm forced to admit that the crowds seem to like my stuff... especially the girls."

"Oh yeah, especially the girls," Rick said with a knowing grin.

"Shut up, dickwad," Stephanie told him with a grin.

"We worked up a set of about fifteen original songs," Jim went on, "and then we started trying to get gigs at some of the local clubs. They weren't very interested in us at first. Most of them rejected us without even an audition. They said they didn't like the way we looked."

Jake simply nodded. It was a theme that was pervading the music industry ever since the rise of MTV and music videos.

"Eventually, however," Jim said. "This tiny little club out in the suburbs gave us a shot. We played there as an opener for three consecutive weekends and that was all it took. People loved us."

"You do have a unique sound," Jake said.

"By the end of that first summer, we were headlining at clubs all over Rhode Island. The next summer we were playing all over New England. It's to the point now that we pack the house everywhere we play."

"How much are you pulling in?" Jake asked.

"Seven-fifty a show," Jim said with a shrug. "It's not a fortune � certainly not enough to quit our teaching jobs for � but it's not bad either."

"We don't do it for the money anyway," Marcie said. "We do it because we love to play music for people. I'll never forget how scared I was the first time we went up on stage. I was trembling and shaking, terrified that I was going to screw up and that everyone would laugh at me."

"I can relate," Jake said. "My first time was exactly the same."

They all looked at him in disbelief for a moment, convinced he was just jerking them off.

"I'm not kidding," Jake said. "I was twenty years old when I walked onto that first stage at D Street West in Heritage, California, and I was terrified. So was Matt and Nerdly. But as soon as we started to play..."

"Yeah," said Marcie with a nostalgic smile. "That's when everything feels the best, isn't it?"

"Damn right," Jake said.

"Does it go away?" asked Stephanie. "The thrill of playing in front of an audience? You know, like when it becomes your actual job and you have to do it night after night?"

"There are a lot of things about going out on tour that tend to burn you out after awhile," Jake said. "Being in hotel rooms all the time, long drives on the bus, all the radio station interviews and autograph sessions, the lack of sleep, the not knowing where you are or what day of the week it is. But, for me, the one thing that has never lost its allure is going out on that stage and hearing people cheering for me. It doesn't matter how many shows in a row we've done, I still love the feeling of playing my guitar and singing for a crowd, the way it feels when the show is over and you know you've done a good job and everyone had a good time. That's magic for me and I think it always will be."

The five band members nodded solemnly at these words of wisdom. "That's good to know," Jim said.

"Yeah," agreed Marcie. "One of my greatest fears is that one day I'll wake up and not want to do this anymore."

"I've been through quite a lot since my first time," Jake said. "I've been arrested, beaten by cops and truck drivers, been accused of every kind of blasphemy there is, and even a few that there isn't, had demented fans threaten to kill my girlfriend, and I still haven't woke up with that feeling yet. Not even close."

"What about the story about you snorting coke out of that girl's ass crack?" asked Marcie. "Any truth to that?"

Jake chuckled and took another drink of his beer. "I'm still pleading the Fifth on that one," he said.

"Understandable," Stephanie said. "Although I'm sure it's a really cool story."

"You have no idea," Jake said. "So tell me something, have you guys ever thought about trying to get a recording contract? Based on what I've heard, your music is definitely marketable."

A look passed among the five members of the band � a cynical look that broke through the geek squad impression.

"We tried once," Jim said. "We paid a couple thousand bucks and put together a demo tape at one of the recording studios here in Boston. We sent it out to about two dozen agents and to all of the major recording studios, including National Records and Aristocrat Records. Most of them we never heard from again. Those we did hear from all rejected us on the ground that 'you don't have the look we're in the market for at this time'."

"In other words," Stephanie said, "we don't look good on camera so they don't care what our music sounds like."

Jake nodded, unsurprised. "Yeah," he said. "That's kind of the way the industry is gearing itself these days. It used to be they didn't give a shit what you looked like as long as you put out good music. Now, it's just the opposite. They don't give a shit what you sound like as long as you look good in the video."

Marcie shrugged, disinterestedly. "Who cares about making it big?" she asked. "I still enjoy teaching and I'm happy with my life. We get to jam together on weekends during the school year and we get to play live for people that appreciate us for what we are all summer. At least we know we're good, that we really are musicians."

"Well put," Jake said. "That really is the most important thing. But if you could get a recording contract going... if someone did agree to put out an album of your tunes, you wouldn't refuse it, would you?"

"What are you suggesting, Jake?" asked Jim.

"I have some pretty good connections in the industry," Jake said. "If there was ever a band that deserved to be heard from coast to coast, you are it. If you have any of those demo tapes still floating around, I'd be willing to let a few people listen to them and see what happens."

They all looked at him as if he were setting them up for a practical joke.

"I'm sincere," Jake assured him. "I can't guarantee anything, but maybe I can get you heard by the right people. I don't like to brag, but I can make a phone call to most of the talent agents in Hollywood and they'll listen to me. I can ask for a meeting with the CEO of National Records and he'll grant it. He may not like me very much � he and I have butted heads many times over the years � but he'll listen to me. And if he hears something that he thinks will make money for him, he'll jump all over it."

"Do you really think they'll like us?" Stephanie asked.

"I really think they will," Jake said. "The question is, do you want to move beyond New England? I'm certainly not one to romanticize the life I lead. It has a lot of good points � the most important one being that I'm rich � but there are a lot of bad parts as well."

Jim answered for them. "Mr. Kingsley," he said, "if someone were to offer us a recording contract, we would not turn it down."

Jake nodded. "Very well then," he said. "Do you still have a demo tape?"

"We do," Jim said.

"Do you have a piece of paper?" he asked next.

Marcie immediately got up and went to a locker, where she kept her purse. She rummaged around in it for a few moments and finally produced a notepad and a pen. Jake wrote down his home address and the telephone number for Pauline's office.

"Send your tape and any information you can put together about yourselves here," he told them, handing Marcie the paper. "Get newspaper clippings about your shows, reviews, anything you can to support the fact that you're talented musicians. Put together a resume that includes bios on all of you and tells how much money you're paid for a show and the names and addresses of every club you've played in over the past year. If you could get some letters of recommendation from some of the club owners, so much the better. Get that stuff to me as soon as you can and I'll see what I can do."

The band was pleased. They all thanked him profusely, Marcie and Stephanie even going so far as to give him hugs.

Jake wished them a fond farewell and then made his leave. When he returned to the club floor he found that Helen was no longer sitting at their table. While he was puzzling this out, one of the waitresses came over to him and told him where she was.

"She got sick," she said. "Cindy helped her to the ladies room. They haven't come back out yet."

"Oh... great," Jake said. "Do you think you could go in there and check on them for me?"

"Anything for you, Jake," she said, her eyes telling him that by anything, she meant anything.

He gave her his patented Jake Kingsley shy smile, the one that seemed to say: I get you and I appreciate the offer, but right now is not a real good time. She responded to it with a smile of her own � a keep me in mind smile � and headed off to the bathroom on her mission.

Cindy and the other waitress brought Helen out of the bathroom a few minutes later, holding onto her one on either side to keep her from falling. Helen was barely conscious, maintaining just enough coherence to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

"Thank you, ladies," Jake said with a sigh. "I can take it from here."

He took it from there, putting Helen's left arm around his neck and half dragging her through the crowd and out the door. As they went, she kept trying to kiss him. He kept his face turned away because her breath smelled very strongly of vomitus. He haled a cab and stuffed her inside. Within two minutes, she was sound asleep and snoring.

He had to physically pick her up and carry her into the hotel when they arrived. As he was opening the door to their suite, she suddenly woke up and began to hiccup wetly. Jake barely got her to the bathroom before she started to erupt with great volumes of alcohol-scented emesis.

"It's gonna be a long night," Jake sighed as he patiently held her hair out of her face and kept her from falling over.

When the retching finally trailed off, Jake managed to get her to her feet, get her undressed, and mostly cleaned up. Before he could get her into bed, however, she had another episode of violent vomiting. As soon as it was over, she passed out again, this time with her head in the toilet bowl. Jake considered just leaving her there � after all, she was pre-positioned for the next round � but in the end he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He dragged her back to the bedroom and put her in bed, careful to lay her on her side to keep her from following in the footsteps of Bon Scott, John Bonham, and Jimmy Hendrix.

She woke up three more times during the night, although by the third she was reduced to nothing more than dry heaves. Finally, she fell into a slumber so deep it could almost qualify as comatose.

The next morning she was so sick she could barely get out of bed. The very mention of food was enough to make her gorge rise. She a vague memory of the end of the Brainwash show, but no recollection whatsoever of Jake leaving her at the table so he could go meet the band, how she got back to the hotel, how she ended up naked in bed, or her many trips to the toilet to purge her stomach of the poison she'd ingested.

She took a long soak in the room's bathtub and then dressed listlessly, falling back asleep while Jake packed her suitcases for her.

It was as they were in the first class lounge waiting for their flight to be called that she began to tremble.

"Jake," she told him, "I'm afraid to get on that plane."

"I know," he said, patting her leg. "I'll be with you. We'll be okay."

And, of course, they were. The 747 took off normally and leveled out at 35,000 feet. It flew normally for five hours and forty-eight minutes. It then touched down normally at LAX, only five minutes behind schedule. Helen sat in barely controlled terror the entire flight. Every bump of turbulence, every bank of every course change, every change in altitude, made her jump and look around wildly and then look out the window at the two engines on the right wing.

"Are you going to be okay?" Jake asked her at one point.

"I don't know," she admitted. "That flight yesterday scared me, Jake. I feel like we're riding in a broken down box of bolts that's going to break apart any second." She shook her head and sighed. "I'm not sure I'm ever going to climb on one of these things again."

San Juan Capistrano, California

July 1, 1989

Jake pulled his BMW into the circular driveway in front of Matt's house. A uniformed valet, hired especially for the occasion of Matt's get-out-of-jail party, rushed over and opened the passenger door, allowing Helen to step out. Once she was out, he made a dash to Jake's door but Jake beat him to the punch, getting out on his own before he could get there. The valet seemed a bit disappointed by this, as if etiquette as he understood it had been broken.

"How are you doing tonight, Mr. Kingsley?" the valet enquired.

"I'm hanging in here," Jake told him.

"Very good, sir. I like your car."

"Take good care of it for me, huh?" Jake responded. "I'd hate to see what Matt would do to you if you scratched a guest's car."

"I'll treat it like it was my own," the valet promised. He got behind the wheel, closed the door, and a moment later, he was gone.

They started toward the front door of the mansion. Even from sixty feet away, through solid walls and windows of double-pane glass, Jake could hear the thumping of bass from Matt's stereo system, could hear the babble of dozens of semi-drunken conversations. Matt had promised the party of the year for the occasion of his release from jail and it seemed like he was delivering it.

The door was opened by a uniformed butler (not Charles, the normal butler; he had other duties tonight) and Helen and Jake were escorted through the house and into the main entertainment room, the source of the music and the conversations. Jake saw well over sixty people down here, all dressed in the most casual wear possible, per the invitation's specification. He saw Bermuda shorts, Hawaiian shirts, blue jeans, light summer dresses, tank tops, and tube tops. Jake himself was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and his favorite Corona T-shirt. Helen was sporting denim shorts, sandals, and a pink spaghetti strap top that showed a lot of cleavage.

The butler picked up a microphone that was mounted on a stand on a small podium just inside the room. He clicked it on and a slight hum emitted from a speaker next to the podium. At the sound, the conversation level decreased and many of the guests turned to look.

"May I present," the butler said formally, "Jake Kingsley, lead singer of the band Intemperance, and his guest for the evening, Helen Brody, pilot and certified flight instructor."

"Wassup, everyone?" Jake said with a wave. A few wassups were thrown back at him and the conversation level picked right back up.

Jake and Helen waded into the room, an environment thick with cigarette and marijuana smoke and the odor of alcoholic beverages. Several of Matt's courtesy bowls � the very objects that had almost sent him to a real prison on drug trafficking charges � were open and in use at several of the tables.

Jake knew most of the people present at the party, at least on a passing basis. There were veteran members of Intemperance's road crew, friends of Matt's from the various clubs he patronized, a few musicians (including Matt's bud from Cabo San Lucas, Sammy Hagar) � and a gaggle of porn actresses who were friends of Kim. There were also a dozen or so people that Jake recognized as counselors and other staff members from GGCI, Matt's home away from home these past four and a half weeks.

Jake greeted those who crossed his path as he made his way to the back of the room. He shook a few hands, received a few hugs, and he and Helen were even propositioned for a threesome by one of the porn stars. Finally, they made their way to Matt, who was standing near the sound system, smoking a cigarette and drinking from a large glass of beer. Standing on one side of him was Kim, who was dressed in Daisy Duke shorts and a brief halter top that hid little of her artificially enhanced charms. On Matt's other side was Laurie Jenkins, the kitchen staff member and waitress from GGCI whom Matt had promised a threesome with he and Kim at the party tonight. Laurie was in a short denim skirt that showed off her best feature � her legs � very well.

"Jake," Matt said, shaking his hand. "Glad you could make it, brother."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Jake told him.

Matt greeted Helen with a hug and a comment about how nice her titties looked in that top.

"Thanks, Matt," she said. "I wore it with you in mind."

Kim gave both Helen and Jake a hug of her own and then introduced Laurie to Helen, calling her a "very special guest." Laurie blushed deeply with embarrassment and arousal.

"Are the rest of the guys here?" Jake asked Matt.

"Yep," Matt said. "You were the last one. Coop and Nerdly are in the kitchen making some sort of fruit punch. Freakboy is around somewhere � probably up in my bedroom sniffin' my fuckin' underwear. And Darren is out in the back, talking to one of Kim's porno actress friends."

"We prefer the term, 'adult film star'," Kim said lightly.

"Oh yeah," Matt said. "Sorry, babe."

"Hey, Matt!" one of the GGCI people shouted from across the room. "This keg is running dry! You got another one ready to go?"

"Does Gumby have a rubber dick?" Matt yelled back. He turned to Jake and Helen. "I'd better go take care of this keg situation. See you in a few."

"Right," said Jake. "We'll go get a drink."

They walked across the room to the bar, where two smartly uniformed bartenders were on duty. Jake ordered his usual, a rum and coke. Helen ordered a plain diet coke. Since that night when they'd watched Brainwash in Boston, Helen had not touched so much as a drop of alcohol. The hangover she'd suffered as a result of that night had laid her low for two days and had even lingered to some degree for a third. The very idea of drinking was still enough to make her queasy. The smell of booze was enough to make her gag. If Jake had been drinking, she would not kiss him until he brushed his teeth.

In many ways, Helen was not the same as she'd been before the trip to Boston. She didn't laugh as much, wasn't quite as affectionate as she'd once been, and she definitely had not gotten over her fear of commercial aviation.

"Never again," she'd told him on multiple occasions since their 747 had touched down at LAX. "I am never getting on an airliner again as long as live."

"That's kind of a rash statement," Jake had tried to explain to her. "What about when we need to go somewhere?"

"If I can't get there in my own plane, I'm not going," she said stubbornly. "I lived through one fuck-up by those incompetent airline mechanics. I'm not putting my life in their hands again."

The fuck-up she was referring to was the preliminary cause report that had been issued the week before regarding the incident on their DC-10 (an incident which had only been reported as a blurb in the Boston newspaper the next day). Though the full and official report was still months in the future, the findings so far indicated that a simple maintenance oversight had been responsible for the loss of the number three engine. One of the mechanics who had done a routine maintenance regiment on that engine the day before the flight had apparently installed a fuel control diaphragm backwards, resulting in nearly five times a much fuel entering the combustion chamber as the engine was designed to handle. This influx of fuel had caused the explosion and fire and resulted in what the NTSB politely and euphemistically termed "a loss of function of the engine".

"You see that?" Helen asked when she read the report, her voice once again flirting with hysteria. "Some numbnuts mechanic, probably stoned out of his mind, put one little piece in backwards and it almost brought us down."

"We didn't almost go down," Jake tried to remind her. "They put the fire out within a few seconds and we had two other engines to fall back on."

"What if that engine had gone out just as we were doing that post-takeoff bank to clear the residential area?" Helen asked. "What would have happened then?"

Jake did have to admit that she had somewhat of a point there. They were both now enrolled in the multi-engine and pressurization modules at a Los Angeles flight school and both had learned that such noise abatement turns immediately after takeoff were considered to be the most dangerous threats to an airliner these days. The problem was that the aircraft was still moving at a comparatively slow rate of speed � less than eighty knots above stall speed, generally � and putting it into a twenty degree bank at such a speed decreased the stall speed even more. If a fully loaded jetliner were to lose an engine in the middle of such a turn � something that their flight had missed doing by less than a minute � there was a good chance that the pilot would not be able to recover in time and the aircraft would "collide with terrain" as the NTSB reports liked to say. It was true that such an incident was not as likely in a DC-10, which had three engines, than it was in a 737, with only two, but it was not, by any means, outside the realm of reasonable possibility.

"My point, Jake," she told him, "is that the mistake he made was the equivalent of you or I forgetting to turn the oven off after taking our food out of it. A very small oversight, something that anyone can do. And this fuel diaphragm thing is only one of maybe a million little oversights that an aircraft mechanic can make. Throw in air traffic control oversights and pilot oversights and it's a wonder that these fucking planes aren't dropping out of the sky two or three times a day." She shook her head. "Sorry, but I'm through. I'm not getting in any aircraft where I don't know who is flying it and who worked on it � and the less complex the fucking thing is, the better."

Jake thought that she would come around on this point of view at some point, but so far, that point was nowhere in sight. For the time being, if Jake wanted to travel somewhere outside the limited range of a propeller driven private aircraft, he would be traveling there alone.

Another thing that had changed about Helen � partly for the better, partly not � was her attitude toward Jennifer Johansen, the psycho stalker who wanted to cut her throat, bash in her teeth, and gouge out her eyeballs. As promised, Jake's people had installed a state of the art security system at her house, complete with cameras, security lights, and alarm receptors on every window and door. Helen used this security system faithfully and to the best of its ability, locking everything down and alarming the house at all times, whether she was home or not (twice now Jake had accidentally set off the alarm by walking outside to get something and forgetting the alarm was on.) Jake figured she was safe enough from everything but a full out surprise assault in the manner of Friday the 13^th, but the very fact that she now had to live like this had created a subtle, but very real sense of resentment toward Jake. She often made snide little remarks under her breath about how she was now living in a prison. Jake let these remarks roll off his back the best he could but they were starting to become more frequent and annoy him a little more with each repetition.

Tonight, the night of Matt's party, was actually the first night since returning from Boston that Helen seemed like the woman he had fallen in love with. She was actually smiling a lot and seemed almost relaxed. As they put down their first drinks of the night and chatted with Sammy Hagar and his wife about the first few months of the Bush administration, she was animated and lively, even getting in an extended discussion with Hagar about the up and coming NFL season.

"Are you gonna barf if I try to kiss you?" Jake asked her after someone snatched Sammy away from them and as they headed to the bar for a fresh round.

She smiled. "I don't know. Why don't you give it a try?"

He did. She didn't barf or even hiccup.

"I'm starting to get over it," she told him. "Not enough to pound down a beer or anything, but enough to tolerate your lips on me again."

"Tolerate?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

She giggled. "You know what I mean," she said, giving a little punch on the shoulder.

"Yeah," he said. "I know what you mean." He kissed her again and then ordered their drinks.

"I'm sorry I've been such a... you know... a bitch lately," she told him as they waited for the bartender to construct them.

"It's okay," he told her, rubbing her back where her bare skin met her top. "You've been through a lot. It's not all glamour and fun dating a celebrity, is it?"

"No," she said. "I think that whole weekend made me realize that. First some psycho bitch draws a picture of me with my throat cut and then we almost die in a plane crash. And then, I come home to find that I'm living in a house that's wired up like Fort Knox." She shrugged. "It made me kind of wonder just what I'd gotten myself into."

"And did you figure it out?" he asked.

She nodded. "I think I did," she said. "Loving you has a price, Jake. I wasn't sure I was willing to pay the price for a little while."

"And now?" he asked.

"I guess they can keep billing me for now," she said.

They kissed again, a longer, sweeter kiss this time. Jake began to feel that maybe everything would be all right after all.

They took their drinks and made their way back over to Matt, who was whispering sweet nothings into Laurie's ear while Kim surreptitiously rubbed her breasts up and down Laurie's back. The young GGCI waitress was glassy-eyed and flushed, her nipples protruding through her top.

"Shouldn't we... you know... give them some privacy?" Helen asked doubtfully.

"Naw," Jake scoffed. "They're just warming her up."

Matt did indeed stop his flirtations when they approached (Kim didn't, she continued to rub herself against Laurie and took over the whisperings).

"So how long you two gonna be in this new flight school gig?" Matt asked them.

"The classroom portion is almost done," Helen told him, trying not to watch as Laurie and Kim shared a brief, yet lustful open-mouthed kiss right next to her. "We have... uh... another twenty-four hours of that."

"What happens then?" Matt asked, completely ignoring the women.

"We start building up hours with the instructor," Jake said. "That will be pretty much at our leisure. Since we're gonna hit the warehouse pretty soon I'll be lucky to get in six hours a week."

"And when you're done, you're gonna buy a twin-engine plane?" Matt asked.

"I've already got Jill looking into it for me," Jake said. He chuckled. "Much to her disgust."

"Yeah," Matt said with a grin, "them fuckin' accountants are all alike. Mine are still giving me shit about those hotel rooms I trashed over in Europe." He shook his head. "I swear to God, you pound a few holes in a few walls and they act like you pissed on the fuckin' Mona Lisa."

"You never did tell me why you tore holes in hotel walls, Matt," Helen said.

He shrugged. "It seemed like the thing to do at the time," he explained.

From out of nowhere, Steve Crow, their National Records A&R rep, suddenly appeared. Unlike everyone else at the party, Steve was dressed in his signature custom-tailored three piece suit, his dark sunglasses perched upon his nose.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Jake whispered as they saw him coming toward them.

"I invited him for comic relief," Matt whispered back. "Later on tonight, when he's drunk, me and a few of the guys are gonna grab him, carry him down to the beach, and throw him in the waves, suit and all."

"What if he drowns?" Helen asked, a little shocked.

"Then they'd have to get us a new A&R guy," Matt replied.

Crow arrived before Helen had a chance to find out if Matt was serious or not. He was grinning his usual grin and was as glad-handed as he normally was. He hardly seemed to notice that he was more than a little overdressed for the occasion.

"Jake, Matt, good to see you guys," he said, shaking with both of them.

"Always a pleasure," Jake said sourly.

Crow knew well that every member of Intemperance despised him with every fiber of their being, but he acted as if he didn't. "And Matt," he said, patting him on the shoulder. "It's good to see that incarceration didn't get the better of you. How bad was it?"

"You can't even begin to imagine," Matt told him. "I was locked up like a rat in a cage. I had to fight to survive every fuckin' day I was there."

"How horrible it must've been," Crow said, feigning sympathy.

"You have no idea," Matt said.

Since neither Jake nor Matt offered to introduce Crow to their girlfriends, Crow took the initiative and made the introductions himself. They both told him they were pleased to meet him.

"Pretty happenin' party you got going here, Matt," Crow said when this ritual was complete.

"Actually, it's pretty tame so far," Matt said. "I have some good entertainment planned for later though."

"Really?" Crow asked. "I can't wait."

"I think you'll find it very interesting," Jake told him.

"I'm sure I will," Crow said. "Listen, guys, I know you hate to talk business at a time like this..."

"We refuse to talk business at a time like this," Matt told him.

Crow laughed as if this were a joke. "Anyway," he said, "I just wanted to touch bases with you both and make sure you're planning to hit the warehouse within the next week or so. Now that you're out of prison, Matt, it's time to start putting together the next album in your contract period."

"The last album in our contract period," Matt said. "And yes, we are prepared to get to work very soon."

"Good... very good," Crow said. "Now that Book and Action are finally starting to fall off the charts, the public is ready for the next album. If we release it at the right time, there's no reason to think it won't sell every bit as well as Book did."

"You'll get your submissions on time, Crow," Jake told him. "We have several months to get them to you."

"I have the utmost faith in you boys," Crow said. "I just wanted to make sure that..."

"You'll get the shit on time," Matt said. "End of discussion."

Crow held up his hand in appeasement. "As I said," he said, "I have utmost faith in you." He turned to Jake. "And have you given any more consideration to including that song you did at the Valdez chick's wedding into the mix?"

"No," Jake said blandly. "That song will not be submitted for consideration."

"Oh come on, Jake," Crow said. "The public is practically drooling for that song. Even though it was a blatant breach of contract for you to perform live in such a setting, we'd be willing to forgive your transgression if you'd submit the song to us for inclusion on the next album."

"It ain't gonna happen," Jake repeated for perhaps the tenth time since he'd returned from Boston. Crow and the other National Records bigwigs had indeed threatened and postured about Jake performing The Start Of The Journey for Celia and Greg at the wedding (as well as for his performances of Molly Malone at the rehearsal). They had claimed breach of contract and had both insinuated and outright claimed that by singing that song in that forum that National had every right to revert them back to their original contract and apply it retroactively, thus putting the band millions of dollars into debt.

Jake told him now what he'd told him on every other occasion. "If you think you can actually get a judge and jury to agree with your ridiculous allegations, go for it. But as it stands now, that song I sang is not an Intemperance song in any way, shape, or form, and it will not be presented as such."

"You can make it an Intemperance song," Crow said. "Just gussy it up a little. Throw in some electric guitars, some drums, a nice bass beat, and some of Nerdly's piano, and you're in. People will eat it up."

"You haven't even heard the song, Crow," Matt said. "How do you know it doesn't suck ass?"

"People magazine said it made people cry at the ceremony!" Crow said. "If it made people cry, it doesn't suck ass!"

"If it made people cry, it ain't a fuckin' Intemperance song!" Matt countered. "Do we look like Elton fucking John here? We don't do crying shit."

Crow was not moved by this argument. "Just keep it in mind, Jake," he said. "And remember, all legal violations of your contract will be forgiven if you just submit this to us."

"They'll be forgiven anyway," Jake said, "because you don't have a leg to stand on. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go take a leak now. This conversation seems to have triggered my parasympathetic nervous system into action."

Matt laughed, clapping Jake on the shoulder. "Goddamn, Jake," he said. "You sounded just like Nerdly there."

Jake and Helen left Crow behind them, heading for the upstairs bathrooms (upstairs was off limits to all guests except the band and their significant others). They each took care of their personal business and then went back down, taking care to stay well clear of Crow.

"He's rather pushy, isn't he?" Helen asked.

"That's a polite way of putting it," Jake said.

An hour went by and the party got drunker � all except for Helen, who continued to drink nothing stronger than diet coke. She stayed on Jake's arm as he drifted from place to place, talking to everyone he met along the way, even the various porn actresses who seemed to enjoy describing some of their more lurid encounters on the set.

"Ron Jeremy?" said one such actress. "Talk about a fucking dick! I did one film with him and that was it for me. It felt like someone was sticking a goddamn baseball bat up my snatch when he fucked me. And then they had him stick it up my ass! Holy shit. I was bleeding every time I took a shit for almost a week after that one."

"That's uh... very interesting," Helen said.

"It's life in the business," she said. "You got some nice titties, hon. You ever think about giving a little performance of your own?"

Eventually they found Charlie, who had come stag to the party and who had turned down every offer of sex from the porn actresses.

"The groupies are bad enough," he told Jake as he wiped down his latest drink with one of his disinfectant wipes. "But these porn chicks? What a nightmare! Can you imagine what kind of germs they might have? Look at what happened to John Holmes."

"I suppose you got a good point there," Jake had to agree.

They talked to him for another ten minutes or so, listening to him go on and on about germs and tapeworms and salmonella poisoning and trichinosis. It was when he started asking questions about whether or not tongue kissing with another guy out of friendship was necessarily a definitive homosexual act that Jake decided he'd had about enough.

"Listen, Charlie," he said, "I think I'm gonna go score me another drink."

"But you still have half of that one left," Charlie pointed out.

"It'll be gone by the time I make it to the bar," Jake said. "Trust me on that."

"Oh... I see," Charlie said.

"And uh... if I were you, I would kind of avoid asking Matt or Coop about any of this tongue kissing with guys stuff. You know what I mean?"

"So they've never done it either?" Charlie asked.

"No," Jake said. "I'm pretty sure they haven't."

Jake turned to make his escape, Helen holding firmly onto his arm. Before he could get anywhere, however, there was a click and a hum as the microphone at the front of the room was turned on. He looked up and saw that Matt was preparing to speak. Standing next to him, sipping from a beer and smoking a cigarette, was Darren.

"Can I have everyone's attention for a couple?" Matt asked, his voice booming out of the microphone.

Everyone quieted down and gave Matt his or her attention.

"First of all," he said, "I'd like to thank all of you for coming tonight. This party was to celebrate my freedom after the hell I had to endure in that shitty-ass prison � no offense to those of you who work there � and having you all here has reminded me of how sweet it is to be free."

Applause at his words broke out from somewhere near the rear of the room and quickly spread. It held for a few seconds and then dropped off.

"So now that I'm out and free," Matt continued, "I just want to assure everyone that Intemperance will rock on and we'll be going to work on our next album in just a few days now. It will be recorded and released by November and it will be our best fucking album yet."

Another round of applause, this time with a few whistles thrown in for good measure.

"And the reason I know that this will be the best album ever," Matt said when it quieted down again, "is because the band that I originally put together, the quintessential fucking Intemperance, will be the one to put together this album, to record it, and to tour for it."

"What does he mean by that?" Charlie said nervously.

Before Jake could answer, Matt himself did. "What I mean by this," he said, "is that my main man here..." He put his arm around Darren's shoulders and pulled him close against him, "Darren Appleman, one of the founding fucking members of Intemperance, is back in action after recovering from a very nasty brush with botulism. He's fought hard and long, endured months and months of physical therapy, and now he's strong, healthy, and ready to get back to work. The original Intemperance is back, people. Let's hear it for Darren!"

Cheers erupted from the crowd, most of whom were drunk enough that they hardly realized what Matt was even talking about.

"What happens to me?" Charlie asked.

Once again, Matt answered before Jake could.

"Freakboy, you out there somewhere?" Matt asked. "You're still here, ain't ya? I'm sure you are. Well let me be the first to tell you, that you too get to return to your old job. The fuckin' Speedy-Lube awaits you. If you see me before your ass is gone, I'll be sure to write you a letter of reference."

Nervous laughter rippled through the room at this statement. Matt didn't seem to notice. "Party on, people!" he yelled into the mic. "Party on! Everything is right in the world tonight!"

With that, he and Darren left the stage, quickly disappearing into the crowd.

Jake looked over at Charlie and saw that he was near tears.

"Charlie?" he asked carefully.

"I'm out of the band?" Charlie asked slowly. "Just like that?"

Jake looked at him for a moment and then shook his head. "No," he told the bass player. "You're not. Don't worry. I think you're about the strangest motherfucker I've ever met in all my years, but I'm not letting you go that easily." He looked over in the direction of the largest gathering of people and finally caught a glimpse of Matt. He was drinking another drink and standing next to Darren.

"You ain't going anywhere," Jake said. "It ain't gonna be pretty, but I'm gonna fight for you."

National Records Building

July 2, 1989

The meeting with Crow was scheduled for eleven o'clock that morning since that was the best time to catch Matt and Coop both awake and in a relatively sober state of being. Jake, who was not looking forward to the subject of the meeting in any way, shape, or form, nevertheless showed up forty-five minutes early. He had a few items that fell under the umbrella of "personal business" to take care of while he was in the building.

Since he was Jake Kingsley, lead singer of National's most popular and profitable band, he was able to walk past the security guards who controlled access to the elevators without so much as an ID check. They didn't bother checking to see if he had an appointment or even asking where in the building he was going. They simply wished him a nice day and opened the bulletproof glass door at the end of the lobby.

Instead of catching an up elevator to Crow's office, Jake caught a down elevator and rode to the basement recording and mixing studio � a place he had spent hundreds upon hundreds of hours in during his career, a place whose layout he knew as well as his own house. He walked down two hallways, descended a set of stairs to a lower level, and finally came to a door labeled MIXING ROOM D. Inside he found a sterile room full of multi-million dollar audio equipment that included complex mixing boards and multiple reel-to-reel tape machines. Three technicians sat at various places around the room. Jake knew two of them on a first name basis, the other on nodding acquaintance. Sitting at the main mixing board were Nerdly and his fianc�e, Sharon. They were dressed identically in loose-fitting khaki shorts and oversized polo shirts. Sitting next to the happy couple was a moderately dark-skinned black man wearing faded jeans and a sleeveless shirt that showed off his muscular arms. A large gold hoop dangled from his left ear and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat perched atop his nose. Jake had never seen a picture of Bigg G before, but since he'd specifically been told to come to this studio at this time in order to meet him, had to assume that Bigg G was who he was looking at.

"Jake," Nerdly said with a nod when he spotted him. He took the headphones off and set them on the table next to him. "Glad you could come. How are they hanging on this day?"

"High and tight," Jake told him.

"Yes," Nerdly agreed. "I can understand how the upcoming confrontation would lead to that phenomenon. I'm suffering from a similar malady myself."

The black man, who had turned toward Jake and taken off his headphones, burst out laughing. "Awww man," he said, shaking his head in amusement. "I just love to listen to what comes out of your mouth, Nerdly."

"Did I say something amusing?" Nerdly asked, confused.

"Never mind," the black man said, standing up. He was just a hair taller than Jake. He held out his right hand. "It's nice to meet you, Jake. I'm Bigg G."

Jake shook with him. "So I finally meet you," he said. "What do your friends call you? Bigg or G?"

"They usually call me Gordon," he said.

"Gordon?"

Gordon shrugged. "It's my given name," he said. "Gordon Paladay. I figured I'd sell a few more records if I went by Bigg G."

"Yeah," Jake said. "I suppose you might have a point there."

Gordon told Jake he enjoyed listening to his music. Jake, unfortunately, was unable to return the sentiment. He had never heard a Bigg G tune before. Gordon said he understood, that rap wasn't everyone's cup of tea.

"I've been meaning to give you a listen," Jake told him. "Nerdly's had nothing but good things to say about your music."

"Nerdly's been a big help with this last album," Gordon said. "He knows this mixing shit better than some of these homeys been working here for fifteen years. And he's been giving us all this help for free."

"I like to mix," Nerdly said, obviously pleased with the praise.

"And he's a funny motherfucker too," Gordon said with a chuckle. "I could listen to his ass all day long and never get tired of it. I want to see if I can get him an invite to speak at this year's rap music awards. He'll bring down the fuckin' house."

Jake laughed. "That he would," he agreed.

Nerdly had a look of puzzlement on his face. "I'd be happy to speak a few words at the awards ceremony," he said. "But I don't quite understand what insights I would be able to share with the rap music community that would hold such interest to them."

"Trust me, Nerdly," Gordon said. "It won't matter what you talk about. They'd fuckin' love it."

"Well... if you say so," Nerdly said.

"I do," Gordon said. "I really do." He turned to Jake. "So, I hear you got a couple of kids who want my autograph."

"Yep," Jake agreed. "My housekeeper's grandkids have been pestering me to get one for them for months. They're good kids so I told them I'd see what I can do."

"Don't they want your autograph?" Gordon asked.

"Naw, they don't care about me," Jake said. "I'm just the guy who lets 'em swim in his pool and who might be able to score them a Bigg G autograph."

"They seem like good kids all right," Gordon said with a grin. "I'll be happy to sign something for them. What do they want?"

"You got any publicity shots on you?" Jake asked.

"Not currently," he said. "I can probably go upstairs and dig a couple up from the promotions department."

"That might work," Jake said thoughtfully. "I have a better idea, if you're down with it."

"Lay it on me," Gordon said.

"They got you staying in a leased condo with some National Records spy who doubles as a servant, right?"

Gordon barked out a sharp, resentful laugh. "It sound like you been through this."

"I have," Jake said. "Why don't you come over to my pad after you're done here tonight? The kids will be there and they can meet you. In return, my housekeeper will serve you a genuine home-cooked meal. I believe she told me she was doing up some tacos tonight."

Gordon liked that idea. "Tacos huh? You mean, like, real tacos?"

"As real as they get," Jake said.

"And she's a good cook?"

"That's one of the reasons I hired her," Jake said.

"I'm in," Gordon said. "That asshole they got cooking for me is some flaming faggot who's always making weird shit like rabbits and geese and fuckin' snails."

"His name isn't Manny, is it?" Jake asked.

"Yeah," Gordon said. "It is. How'd you know?"

"Long story," Jake told him with a laugh. "How do they get you here and back? Limo service?"

"Nope," he said. "They got me a Mercedes 500E coupe � leased, of course, and coming out of my recoupables."

"No shit?" Jake said. "When I first started they threw a shitfit about me having my own car. It gave me more freedom than they wanted. Now they're leasing the car for you?"

"They ain't doin' it out of the kindness of their hearts," Gordon said. "It's an image thing. People expect to see a famous brother with his own ride so they got me one. They charge me extra if I go over a hundred miles a week though, and they threaten to cut off my allowance if I go someplace they don't want me going with it."

"Like to my pad?" Jake asked.

"I'm sure they won't be down with that," Gordon agreed. "You is considered a bad influence on other musicians."

Jake chuckled. "I suppose I am at that," he said. "So are you gonna get in trouble for coming over?"

"Shee-it," Gordon scoffed. "Trouble is my middle name."

"I thought you said it was Albert," Nerdly said, causing Jake to crack up and Gordon to look acutely embarrassed.

Jake wrote down his address and basic directions for Gordon and told him he was looking forward to the visit. Nerdly, meanwhile, held a brief conversation with Sharon regarding the final instructions for the low-end bass levels they were working on. She agreed with most of what he said but did have a few points of contention to offer. Gordon then jumped in with a few points of his own. Finally they reached a shaky consensus on the matter, enough that Nerdly felt safe leaving them for an hour or so.

Jake said goodbye to Sharon and Gordon and headed for the exit. Nerdly trailed behind him. They made their way back to the elevators and pushed the up button. While they waited, Nerdly began to chew on his fingernails.

"Remember," Jake told him. "We stick to our guns on this, no matter how much he threatens and postures."

"Stick to our guns," Nerdly agreed.

By the time they reached Crow's office they were still more than twenty minutes early. Crow's secretary greeted the two musicians and told them to go right in.

"Are you sure?" Jake asked. "The last time we busted in on him unexpectedly he was getting his knob polished by Mikey Garcia."

The secretary blushed a little. "I assure you, he's alone in there this time," she told them. "And I also buzzed him to let him know you were here when I saw you in the outer office."

"Okay then," Jake said. "If you're sure it's safe."

They walked in. It was safe. Crow was sitting behind his desk, seemingly doing some actual paperwork of some sort although Jake wasn't quite sure what sort of actual paperwork someone like Crow would have. He greeted them warmly but cautiously as he waved them to seats in front of his desk.

"You're early, guys," he said.

"I came a little early to meet Bigg G," Jake said. "Nerdly here was kind enough to introduce me to him."

Crow nodded. "He's a nice enough guy... you know... for a nigger."

Jake rolled his eyes. "That's quite some praise, Steve," he said. "I'm sure he'd be quite pleased to hear that from your lips."

Crow shrugged. "He's not in my department and I try not to mingle with people not in my department."

"Except for Mikey Garcia, right?" Jake asked with a smile.

Crow chose to ignore this remark. "I've never quite understood why people like that rap shit anyway. It sounds like a bunch of noise to me." He shrugged again. "Oh well. It makes us a lot of money."

"And that's what it's all about, right?" Jake asked.

"Exactly," Crow said, either missing Jake's sarcastic tone or ignoring it. "So, tell me something, gentlemen. Is the subject of this meeting what I'm afraid it is?"

"That depends on what you're afraid it is," Jake said.

"Well... let's see," Crow said. "You called Pauline, Nerdly, Matt, and Coop for a meeting with me but you specifically excluded both Charlie and Darren. That kind of implies that Charlie and/or Darren are to be the subject of the discussion at hand."

Jake and Nerdly looked at each other. "We'd rather not say until the others get here," Jake said.

Crow sighed, shaking his head in consternation. "I knew it," he said. "I knew that somehow you guys were going to piss on my tranquility again."

"Steve..." Jake started.

"I am not going to allow a dispute to disrupt the timeline for the next album," Crow warned. "I'm telling you this right here and now, and you guys had better take heed of my words."

"Like I said, Steve," Jake said. "Why don't we wait until everyone gets here before we start yelling at each other? There will be plenty of time for that later."

Crow sighed again. "I suppose," he said. "You guys want something to drink?"

They both asked for non-alcoholic drinks (Jake, iced tea with a lemon slice, Nerdly, a virgin strawberry daiquiri with a banana slice). Crow got his secretary on the intercom and passed the order along. She promised the beverages would be there in less than five minutes. While they waited, Jake brought up the subject he really wanted to discuss. He had received the resume, news clippings, and demo tape from Brainwash almost two weeks ago. Out of his own pocket he had made ten copies of everything, including the tape itself. One set he had given to Crow, telling him he thought they were a great band with huge money-making potential. Crow had promised to look into the packet and give the tape a listen.

"So," he said to Crow now, "have you had a chance to go over that material I gave you on Brainwash?"

Crow made a sour face. "I went over it as much as I needed to," he said. "You really should leave new artist development to the NAD department, Jake."

"You didn't like them?" Jake asked, surprised. He himself liked them so much he had taken to listening to a copy of their demo tape in his car. They really did make some good music.

"Nothing to like about them," Crow said. "They are most definitely not what we're looking for in a new artist � now, or at any other time."

"Why in the hell not?" Jake asked. "What's wrong with them?

"What's wrong with them?" Crow asked incredulously. "Jesus Christ, Jake. How could you seriously ask me that? The guys in that group all look like friggin' accountants, one of the girls looks like a dyke, and the other girl is a fat cow."

"Fat?" Jake said. "Marcie Scanlon is not fat. She's full-bodied, voluptuous maybe, but I certainly wouldn't call her fat."

"I would," Crow said. "And so would much of America. She's a goddamn moose. The camera would make her look even fatter."

"Steve," Jake said, "did you even listen to the tape or did you base your entire judgment on the band's photos?"

"I didn't need to listen to the tape," Crow said. "There's no way in hell a band with a fat chick, a trio of nerds, and a dyke on lead guitar is going to make it in this industry. They could be Led Zepplin resurrected and no one would care."

"I think you're wrong about that," Jake said. "Dead wrong."

"You're entitled to your opinion," Crow allowed, "but keep in mind that I'm an artist and repertoire specialist who also did five years in the NAD department. I hardly think you're as qualified to judge music."

"Yes," Jake said, "I am just a musician after all � one who is a primary member of your record company's best selling band of the last two decades."

"Exactly," Crow said, once again completely missing or disregarding Jake's sarcasm.

"Steve," Jake said, putting a little pleading into his voice. "Will you just listen to the tape once? As a favor to me?"

"Jake, I respect you... really, I do. You are a great musician � one of the best I've ever heard � and I'll even admit that you have good instincts for what a music consumer wants to listen to. But you're also very linear in your assessments. You think it's all about the sound when that's really not the truth anymore. I'm telling you as straightforward as I can, it doesn't matter what these Brainwash freaks sound like. It doesn't matter how good their music is when considered on its own merits. You have to have a certain look, a certain style to sell albums and they simply don't have it. Everything about them is wrong. Multiple lead singers of mixed sexes? That shit went out with Fleetwood Mac. Bands that do a mixture of hard rock and easy-listening love ballads? That shit went out with The Eagles."

"Steve," Jake said patiently, "Fleetwood Mac and The Eagles are two of the best-selling bands of all time. Don't you think that's at least partly because the formula works? Because they appeal to a broad stretch of the demographics?"

"It worked in the seventies," Crow said. "We're almost in the nineties here, remember? Tastes have changed. They've been shaped by MTV and the medium of the music video. No one wants to just sit down and listen to music anymore. They want to experience it, to revel in it, to become immersed in it, not just the music itself � the quality of the recording is now almost secondary in importance � but in the story and the look of the band. They want to know who the people who make the music are and they want to be attracted to these people, to feel as if they are someone they'd like to know, to hang out with. And, in order for that to occur, the band has to look good first and foremost and project a favorable image to their target demographic. Your Brainwash friends lose on all of these counts. And then there's the big taboo they have going for them. Even if they were attractive enough to photograph well � which they are not � there is no way in hell anyone would ever take them seriously because their lead guitarist is a girl."

"She's a damn good guitarist," Jake said. "If you'd just listen..."

"Jake, it doesn't matter!" Crow said, raising his voice in frustration. "She could be a combination of Matt Tisdale, Eric Clapton, and Eddie Van Halen and she would still never be respected for it. A female lead guitarist for a band with men in it is unprecedented. Two-thirds of the people would refuse to acknowledge that she was good, a sixth would acknowledge it but would say it was a gimmick, that some male guitarist was actually the one playing the tracks for her, and the remaining one sixth, the ones who would actually like her and believe that she was really the one playing, they would be so degraded by the other five fifths that they wouldn't dare share their opinion with anyone."

"The fans in New England seem to respect her well enough," Jake pointed out. "They sell out every venue they're booked in and they're pulling down $750 a show � not much by our standards, but a goddamn fortune for a simple club band."

This argument did not impress Crow in the least. "How a particular municipality feels about a band that plays in their bars and how that same band would be accepted nationally in a recorded and video medium are two very different things," he said.

"I don't think they are," Jake said.

"And that's why you are the musician and I am the National Records A&R rep," Crow said.

Jake didn't push the issue any further. He had already figured out that trying to convince Crow that Brainwash had album sales potential would be like trying to convince Jerry Falwell that Hustler wasn't such a bad publication. And, unfortunately for Brainwash, Crow's opinion would hardly be unique among the rest of National's movers and shakers, or, in fact, among any other record company's movers and shakers.

Nerdly, seeing that Jake's issue had been run into the ground, now jumped in with his issue of the month. It had to do with replacing the traditional microphones the band had used on all previous tours with more modern wireless mics. National was reluctant to authorize this expense since it was just that: an expense. True, the equipment supplier would pick up a good portion of the cost in exchange for an endorsement, and true, the band itself would contractually pick up half of what was left, but this would still leave National responsible for something in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars. Ten grand was a mere pittance to a corporation that pulled in hundreds of millions in profit every year, but it was something they were willing to fight tooth and nail over.

Crow and Nerdly argued the issue back and forth, with neither giving any ground, until the intercom buzzed. It was Crow's secretary, letting him know that Pauline had arrived.

"Right, send her in," Crow said and then shut the intercom off. He looked back at Nerdly. "Look, Bill. We haven't even started putting the next album together yet. The tour is months in the future at the very least. Can't we pick up this discussion a little later?"

"Attempting to ignore the issue in perpetuity is not behooving of you," Nerdly informed him huffily.

"I understand," Crow said. "Let's just ignore it until you boys actually get some tracks down on tape, okay?"

"Okay," Nerdly reluctantly agreed.

Pauline came in the door. She was dressed about as casually as she would ever allow herself to be seen in public, which was to say that she was wearing a charcoal gray pantsuit and matching blouse instead of a dress. Her hair was done up in its usual bun and she exuded the faintest whiff of some sort of expensive perfume.

She greeted everyone and took a seat without being asked. Crow immediately launched into a rant about how he was not going to tolerate any delays in the recording process on account of this Darren vs. Charlie dispute.

"No delays at all, do you understand?" he demanded of her. "Not a single day's worth!"

Pauline was nonplussed by his tirade. "Why don't we just wait until everyone is here before we begin any sort of discussion?" she asked him.

"All right," Crow said. "I just wanted to make National's position in this dispute very clear."

"You've made it very clear that National has no position," Pauline told him.

"Right," Crow said, and then, "... uh, wait a minute."

"We'll talk when they get here, Steve," Jake said. "Now where are those drinks?"

The drinks came just as Coop and Matt walked through the door. Coop looked a little nervous. Matt looked determined, and ready to rumble if it came to it. Jake knew with one look that the two of them had also gleamed the nature of today's meeting.

"Matt, Coop," Crow greeted, inviting them in and waving them to chairs. "Thanks for coming."

The two of them sat, neither saying anything, neither greeting Jake, Nerdly, or Pauline.

"Can I get you two something to drink?" Crow asked.

"No," Matt said. "We won't be here long enough for a drink. I came here to say one thing and one thing only. Freakboy is out of the band and Darren is back in. That is my decision as leader of the band and that's the way it's gonna be. Everyone dig that? Good. Meeting over."

Jake sighed. He had hoped they could at least start off in a civilized way. Apparently not. "This meeting is not over, Matt," he said. "You can't unilaterally make a decision like that without consulting with the rest of us."

"The fuck I can't," Matt said. "Intemperance is my band. Me, Coop, and Darren were the founding members. I named the band, I am the leader of the band, and what I say is what fuckin' goes! Darren is back in and Freakboy is back to the fuckin' Speedy-Lube."

Jake looked at Pauline. She nodded. "Actually, Matt," she said, "Jake is right. You don't have the authority to make that decision on your own."

"Don't start spouting your lawyer bullshit at me, Pauline," he snapped at her.

"Lawyer bullshit?" she asked. "Would that be the same lawyer bullshit that got you out of a fucked-up first time contract and into a second contract that made you a millionaire?"

"I'm not bitching about that lawyer bullshit," he told her.

"No," she said, "just the lawyer bullshit that doesn't agree with your position, right?"

"That's not what I'm saying," Matt said. "I'm saying that the law and our contract don't have nothing to do with this shit. Freakboy was hired as a temporary replacement for Darren. Darren is better now and able to resume his normal duties. That means Freakboy is outta here and good fuckin' riddance. There's nothing to argue about."

"That's where you're wrong, Matt," Pauline explained. "There is nothing in Charlie's contract about him being a temporary member of the band. He was added to your main contract with all the same rights and privileges as everyone else. He cannot be removed by a simple decision from you."

"Who the fuck did that?" Coop asked.

"We all did," Jake said. "It was to keep Crow and the rest of his cronies from screwing him out of his royalties."

"Hey now," Crow put in. "We weren't trying to screw anyone out of anything. We wanted Charlie to have a separate contract for this very reason � so there would be no dispute when it came time for Darren to return."

"Your concern for band harmony is touching, Steve," Jake said. "In any case, what's done is done. Charlie is just as much a member of this band as anyone else and he cannot simply be cast aside because that's the way you want it, Matt. He has to be voted out of the band by a majority vote."

"Well then we fuckin' vote him out of the band," Matt said. "You can spout on and on about the legalities of this situation if you want, but everyone in this room knows that Freakboy was hired as a temporary fucking replacement. Freakboy knows this himself. So now that Darren is better, we hold our little vote and kick his ass out so Darren can come back. It's very simple, isn't it?"

"No," Jake said. "It's not that simple."

Matt glared angrily at Jake. "Are you fuckin' denying that we hired Freakboy as a temp, Jake?" he asked. "Are you going to sit right there in front of me and tell me you thought his ass was replacing Darren for good?"

"No," Jake said. "I'm not gonna tell you that. We did agree that Charlie was nothing more than a temp."

"So what is the goddamn problem?" Matt demanded. "We don't need a temp anymore. It's time for his ass to go. Darren is back and ready to play."

"The problem," Jake said, "is that Darren is a fuck-up with a long history of fucking up. He's unreliable, he has a problem with staying sober, and he lies to cover up for it. How many times has he gone behind our backs and started using drugs before shows and rehearsals? How many times has he screwed up our shows because of this behavior or out and out caused them to be canceled?"

"That's in the past," Matt said. "He's off the heroin and the painkillers now. He's off all the Xanax and Valium and all that other shit. He's ready to go back to work."

"For how long, Matt?" Jake asked. "How long do you think it's going to be until he starts popping those pills again, or injecting that shit into his arms?"

"He told me he's done with that shit and I believe him," Matt said.

"I don't," Jake said. "His track record sucks. The reason he was gone all this time in the first place was because he was using heroin � something he'd promised not to do anymore � and got botulism from it."

"He learned his lesson from that," Matt said. "Trust me when I say he ain't gonna be skin popping any more heroin."

"Yeah, but what about popping painkillers? What about popping Valium or tranquilizers? What about simple drinking and pot smoking and cocaine? He's proven to us time and time again that he's not able to control himself when it comes to things that get you high. He doesn't know when to stop and he doesn't think it's important not to use the shit when we're performing."

"He deserves another chance, Jake. If he fucks up again, then we'll kick his ass out."

"I don't want it to come to that, Matt," Jake said. "There's no reason why it should. We have a perfectly good bass player in place right now."

"He's a fuckin' freak!" Matt yelled.

"True," Jake had to agree. "He's obviously got more than a few synapses that aren't firing quite right."

"I would say," said Nerdly, "based on my observations of him, that he suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, and quite possibly some form of repressed latent homosexuality."

"Exactly," said Matt. "He's a fuckin' nutcase who wants to suck dick."

"He's also a goddamn good bass player," Jake said.

"I'll admit that he's good," Matt allowed. "I'll even admit he's better than Darren on a strictly musical level, but that shit doesn't matter. A bass player only needs to set the rhythm. Darren does that just fine."

"I disagree," Jake said. "When we were using Darren we were keeping our backbeat simple and straightforward. He would bitch every time we tried to put down a multi-tempo piece. With Charlie, we're allowed to be much more complex with our backbeat. We've even been able to incorporate some of the bass into the main riffs of the songs. He's an all around better player musically and despite his weirdness, he's reliable. We can count on him to show up sober to rehearsals and shows. We can rely on him not to get strung out on some fucked up drug and drag one of the other band members down with him."

"Hey, man," Coop said warningly. "If you're talking shit about me, it ain't fuckin' cool."

"I'm just trying to speak plainly here, Coop," Jake said. "I'm sorry if it offends you, but I think you know what I'm talking about. I seem to recall you spending a stretch in rehab because you let Darren talk you into shooting heroin."

Coop glowered but didn't say anymore on the subject.

"Let's just get this shit out on the table," said Matt. "Just so we know where we're standing here. Are you, Jake, and you, Nerdly, telling us that you will not vote to kick Freakboy out of Intemperance and to bring Darren back in?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "That's what I'm saying."

"Uh huh," Matt said, his eyes shooting daggers. He looked over at Nerdly. "And you, Nerdly?"

"I'm afraid I must take Jake's position on this matter," Nerdly said. "Charlie is the superior musician and he is less likely to succumb to the temptation of substance abuse."

"You just like him because he's more of a fuckin' weirdo than you are, you fuckin' nerd!" Coop yelled.

"Coop," Pauline said levelly, "I don't think we need to start being nasty to each other."

Matt's face, meanwhile, was turning a darker shade of red. He suddenly slammed his hand down on Crow's desk hard enough to make the drink glasses jump. "This is fuckin' bullshit!" he yelled. "You motherfuckers agreed that Freakboy was a temp! You fuckin' agreed to that! Don't you have any loyalty at all? Just because the temp plays a little better and likes to look at our bare asses after a show instead of snorting coke, you want to throw Darren away?"

"I'm sorry, Matt," Jake said. "I don't dislike Darren, truly I don't, but we have Charlie here now, he plays better, he's more reliable, and I think he needs to stay on as the bassist. I'm a loyal person by nature but Darren used up all of his loyalty chips with me when he went back on the heroin. Yes, I know we planned to bring him back when we could, but I didn't know at the time that the temp was going to turn out to be a better prospect. I'm not going to vote for Charlie to leave."

"Nor am I," Nerdly said. "I feel sorry for Darren, but he formulated his own equation and now he has to live with the results of the calculation it produced."

Matt was shaking his head again. "Fuckin' bullshit," he told them. "You two are a couple of goddamn traitors!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Matt," Jake said. "I'm just doing what I think is best for the band."

"It doesn't fuckin' matter anyway," Matt said. "Freakboy is still gone, no matter how you two vote."

Jake blinked. "How's that?"

"You and Nerdly are voting not to kick him out. Me and Coop are voting to kick him out. Darren is still a member of this band, isn't he? He still gets to vote on this shit, doesn't he?"

Jake and Nerdly looked at Pauline. "Well... he does have a point there," she said. "Under the contract, Darren is still a member of the band with all the rights and privileges."

"Well there you have it then," Matt said. "Darren gets to vote too. How do you think he's going to vote on this, Jake? You think he's going to take your side?"

"If Darren gets to vote on this," Jake said, "than so does Charlie."

"Oh no," Matt said. "Freakboy don't get to vote on his own dismissal. The rules are pretty clear in the contract. If a majority of the band members wants his ass out, then he's a gone motherfucker."

"Uh... actually, Matt," Pauline said. "There is nothing that says Charlie can't vote on the issue of his own dismissal."

"What?" he yelled, turning toward her. "What kind of bullshit is this? You're making this shit up as you go along!"

Pauline showed her first real spark of anger. "No, Matt," she said firmly. "I am not. And I sternly resent the implication that I would side with Jake over you and make things up in order to do it. I am a lawyer and I deal in issues of the law impartially and in black and white. Do you understand?"

Amazingly, Matt seemed almost cowed by her outburst. "Yeah," he mumbled. "I understand."

"Good," Pauline said. "Now here is the situation as it relates to your contract. There is nothing in the contract that prohibits any band member from voting on the issue of their own dismissal. It simply says that a majority vote of the band is required before a member can be fired. So what we have here, basically, is a Mexican standoff. You, Coop, and Darren vote that Charlie should go. Jake, Nerdly, and Charlie vote that he should stay. The same situation comes up if we try to hit things from a different angle. If there's a motion to kick Darren out of the band instead, Jake, Nerdly, and Charlie will undoubtedly vote for it, you, Coop, and Darren will vote against it. It's a tie vote. No majority is able to decide."

"How about the band's manager casts the deciding vote?" Jake said.

"Oh get the fuck out of here with that shit!" Matt yelled. "Let your fucking sister decide this? That's fair, isn't it?"

"Whether or not it's fair is immaterial," Pauline said. "There is nothing in the contract that allows me or anyone else to cast a vote in order to break a tie so it wouldn't be binding. No one anticipated there being six people in the band at any point. We figured that since there were five of you, a tie vote would be impossible. There is no provision in the contract to solve this problem. You're going to have to find some way to work it out on your own."

"So if you did have a vote," Matt asked her. "Who would it be for?"

"It would be to get rid of Darren and keep Charlie," Pauline said.

"Shocking that you would take Jake's side," Matt said bitterly.

"Once again, Matt," she said, "I resent the implication that I'm siding with Jake because he's my brother. I take the position I take because I'm your manager � everyone's manager � and it's what I think is best for the band."

"And what about you, Crow?" Matt asked. "What is National's position on this?"

"We have no position," Crow said. "We don't care who you keep and who you kick out, but we do demand you make a decision quickly and get to work on your next album. Your deadline for submission is fast-approaching and we will not tolerate a lack of productivity."

Matt shook his head angrily. "That's kind of what I figured you'd say. You and your people are about as spineless as one of those fucking tapeworms Freakboy's always ranting about."

"Look, Matt," Pauline said. "I don't see how we're going to solve this issue by throwing insults around and cussing at everyone. We need to talk and figure out what we're going to do. Someone is going to have to back down on this."

"It ain't gonna be me," Matt said. "I'm the one who is right here and every one of you motherfuckers knows it. We agreed Freakboy was a temp, so he's the one who should go. I'm the leader of this fucking band and you should all be following my direction instead of using a bunch of goddamn technicalities in the contract to undermine me."

"Nobody is trying to undermine anyone," Jake said. "When you add up the pros and cons of the decision, Charlie clearly comes out the winner. He's a better bass player, he's more reliable, he's less likely to let drug use interfere with his work, and he already knows the material from our last album. If we go back to Darren, we'll have to teach him all of the tunes from Book and Action, some of which, quite frankly, I'm not sure he's capable of learning."

"I hadn't thought about that," Crow suddenly said. "That will add to the time it takes to put the tour together."

"It won't add that much time," Matt said. "And Darren can be taught any fucking rhythm that Freakboy came up with."

"Nevertheless, Matt," Crow said. "Now that this delay has been pointed out to me, I'm afraid I much change my previous stance of neutrality. I must advocate for the retention of Charlie Meyer as Intemperance's bass player."

"Well you ain't the one making the decision now, are you?" Matt asked. He looked at Pauline. "Right?"

"Right," she agreed. "It has to be a band decision. The contract specifically states that National can fire the entire band if they want, but they cannot fire any individual member."

"And you'll recall," Jake told Matt, "that the reason we fought so hard for that provision was because of Darren's drug use and the fact that National wouldn't do anything about it."

"That has nothing to do with what's going on now," Matt said.

"True, but it does serve to illustrate my point about his history, doesn't it? The very portion of the contract that has put us in this position was put in there because of Darren's propensity to use drugs."

"I ain't backing down on this!" Matt yelled. "My vote is for Darren and there ain't a motherfuckin' thing in the world that's gonna change that. I'll let National file a breach of contract lawsuit and I still ain't changing my mind. Jake, either you or Nerdly needs to vote for Darren or there ain't gonna be no next album."

"Now wait just a minute here!" Crow said forcefully. "I must insist that..."

"Insist later," Jake said. He looked at Matt, his eyes staring into Matt's eyes. "I'm not backing down on this either, Matt. I know it's not what I agreed to back in the beginning, but that's just the way it is. Charlie is the one who belongs in this band, not Darren. You are letting your misplaced loyalty for a man who has proven himself unworthy of it get in the way of your better judgment and common sense."

"Common sense?" Matt yelled, suddenly standing up from his chair. "You want me to show you some fuckin' common sense? Common sense tells me I should start beating your ass right now!"

Jake did not stand, did not rise to the bait. "I've told you this before, Matt," he said mildly, "and I'll tell you again. This isn't high school. You don't win just because you can kick my ass. I will tell you that if you lay a hand on me in anger, you and I will never play music together again."

"Gentlemen!" Crow said, now truly alarmed. "We must stop this! We must..."

"Shut your ass, Crow," Matt told him without even glancing in his direction. He continued to glare at Jake for a few moments. When Jake didn't drop his eyes, he slowly sat back down. He looked over at Nerdly. "What about you, Nerdly?" he asked. "How firm is your position on this? You vote to kick Freakboy out and we have a majority. We can start working on the next album by the end of the week."

"I'm afraid not," Nerdly told him, obviously scared to say so, but sticking to his guns. "I foresee nothing but disaster if Darren were to return to the band. Like Jake said, he is unreliable in matters of sobriety."

Matt slammed his fist down on Crow's desk. "Well goddammit!" he yelled. He turned to Crow. "You might as well start processing your breach of contract lawsuit now, Crow, because it's obvious we ain't gonna resolve this fucking thing."

"This is just awful," Crow said. "We don't want to have to sue you guys. We want you to put this album together so we can all make some money here. Surely there must be a solution to this problem?"

"Not if these two motherfuckers are willing to go to the wall for Freakboy," Matt said. "Coop and I are prepared to go to the wall for Darren, so that means it ain't gonna get resolved."

"What about that, Coop?" Jake asked the drummer, who had been watching the angry conversation go back and forth mostly in silence. "Are you willing to go to the wall on this for Darren? Willing to let this thing go breach of contract?"

"Coop is with me on this!" Matt yelled. "Don't even try to convince him to..."

"Isn't that what you just did with Nerdly?" Jake asked him. "Didn't you just try to convince him to vote with you less than twenty seconds ago?"

"I thought maybe Nerdly might have some fuckin' loyalty in him, unlike you," Matt said.

"And I'm thinking that maybe Coop has some common fucking sense in him, unlike you," Jake said. He turned back to Coop. "So what do you say, Coop? Are you going to the wall on this, or not?"

Coop took a few deep breaths before answering. Finally, he said, "This shit is fuckin' stupid, man. It ain't the way the fuckin' world's supposed to work."

"So what's your answer then?" Jake asked him.

"Don't give in to these motherfuckers, Coop!" Matt said. "Don't fuckin' sell out your brother, man!"

Coop looked down at the desk, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. "I'll vote for Darren," he said softly. "Matt's right. We fuckin' owe it to him."

An uncomfortable silence descended in the room. Not even Crow broke it with his whining. Finally Jake suggested that they adjourn for the day since any hope of a solution to the problem was pretty much shot. Pauline agreed with his reasoning.

"Everybody think real carefully about this situation you're in," Pauline told them as they stood to leave the office. "Real carefully. One of you four is going to have to back down or you're all going to be looking at a whole shitload of legal trouble."

By the time Jake got home he had pretty much written the entire day off as one of the shittiest of his life. First, the band he had "discovered" in Boston � Brainwash � and that he knew (fucking knew!) would be a runaway success, had been shot down by his record company without even being listened to. And then there was the fight over the Darren vs. Charlie issue. He and Matt had gone head to head on that one and the very future of the band was now hanging in the balance, with neither of them prepared to give in. Though he and Matt had butted heads on occasion � the Shaver contract issue and the palm-muted chords issue were two that immediately came to mind � they had never gone after each other like they had today. Could their friendship survive something like this? Even more important, could their musical compatibility survive it? Jake didn't know and he was worried sick about how this was going to turn out.

Needless to say, the last thing in the world Jake felt like when he arrived at home was entertaining a visitor. But he had invited Gordon � Bigg G � over for dinner so he was going to be a proper host. He made sure there was a good variety of beer in the refrigerator and that Elsa knew to have extra portions of what she was making. He also told her Gerald and Delilah should hang out for dinner as he had a surprise for them.

"What kind of surprise?" she asked, perhaps a little dubiously.

"That rapper they've been pestering me about getting an autograph from is my dinner guest."

"The one they refer to a Bigg G?"

"That's the one," Jake confirmed.

"I see," she said. "Well, it should be an interesting experience for them. Just as I was starting to think their use of the English language could not get any worse, you arrange for a genuine rap musician to make an appearance."

"Sorry, Elsa," Jake said, knowing she was not entirely serious. "He's actually a nice enough guy."

"So he won't be carrying a firearm into the house?"

"He's under a first contract. He probably can't afford a firearm."

"Very well then," she said. "I'd better get back to work. It's almost time to start cooking the meat."

Gordon arrived just past 5:30 that afternoon. Jake opened the front door to let him in.

"What do you say, Jake," he greeted as he looked around the entryway in appreciation. "Nice crib you got here."

"Thanks," Jake said, shaking with him. "It's a place to lay my head at night."

"And it all belongs to you?" Gordon asked.

"Well... some of it still belongs to the bank, but yeah, I am the registered owner."

Gordon gave an appreciative whistle. "Sweet. Now I see what awaits me when I'm done with this first contract."

Jake's reply was almost automatic. "What makes you think I'm not still operating under a first contract?"

"Shee-it," Gordon scoffed. "Everyone in the industry knows you renegotiated your contract after your second album. I heard you submitted a tape full of shitty-ass songs and refused to do anything else until they caved."

"Really?" Jake asked. Apparently more of the truth had leaked out than he'd thought.

"Is it true?" Gordon asked.

"I'm not allowed to say," Jake said, nodding his head as he said it.

Gordon laughed. "I see," he said. "I'm glad it worked out for you. How about you give me a tour of this place? Show me what kind of action I'm looking at in the future."

"You got it," Jake said.

He gave him the full tour, starting with the upstairs portion, which was where he spent most of his time. When they headed back to ground level he showed him around the entertainment room and the back deck but deliberately left the kitchen until last. When they finally entered Elsa's domain, Elsa was standing at the stove watching over a panful of carne asada tacos, Delilah was at the counter, chopping onions, and Gerald was at the other end of the counter, grating cheese into a large bowl. No one looked up when they entered.

"Gerald, Delilah," Jake said. "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine from down at the recording studio."

Now they looked up. Once recognition kicked in, both mouths dropped open as if on hinges and both sets of eyes widened comically.

"It's... it's... oh my God!" Delilah whimpered.

"It's... Bigg G!" Gerald said. "I mean... uh... isn't it?"

Gordon was grinning. "That's what they call me," he said, stepping forward. "It's nice to meet you two. Jake's told me a lot about you."

"Oh my God!" Delilah suddenly screeched. "My hair! My make-up! I just got out of the pool! I have onions all over my hands." She turned angrily on Jake. "Couldn't you have warned us he was coming over? Oh my God, I'm gonna die!"

"You are not going to die, young lady," Elsa said, flipping her tacos over and then putting her spatula down. "And if you don't close your jaw, it is very likely an insect of some sort might fly into it."

Delilah's blush was visible even through her dark skin. "Nana," she hissed. "This is Bigg G. The Bigg G."

"Uh, you can call me Gordon, ma'am," Gordon said politely.

"Gordon?" Gerald whispered in disbelief.

"Surely you didn't think this gentleman's parents named him Bigg G, did you?" Elsa enquired.

"Uh... no," Gerald said. "But Gordon?"

"It's the name they gave me," Gordon said with a shrug.

"Don't worry, Bigg G," Gerald told him. "We won't tell nobody."

"You will tell nobody," Elsa said sternly.

"No, we won't!" Gerald insisted. "I promise!"

"I believe your nana was correcting your grammar," Gordon told him. "The proper phrase would be 'we will tell nobody', although it would be more correct to say 'we will not tell anybody'."

Gerald and Delilah were looking at Gordon in shock. A rap singer was correcting their grammar? But Elsa seemed strangely impressed.

"Oh, so you do hold some rudimentary grasp of the English language and its nuances, Mr. G?" she asked.

"I do," he agreed. "I just try not to let that get out."

The ice was effectively broken at that point. Jake formally introduced Elsa to Gordon and then did the same for the two kids. Elsa passed a few semi-kind words with him and then declared she needed to get back to work on her tacos. In light of the special guest, she excused Gerald and Delilah from further kitchen duties and allowed them to accompany Jake and Gordon out onto the back deck.

For the next twenty minutes the two kids pestered the rapper with a thousand questions about anything and everything they could think of. Gerald asked about the motivation for certain songs, about what kind of car he drove, about what kind of house he lived in. Delilah asked about his girlfriends and what life was like on the road and about when his next album was coming out. Gordon fielded their enquiries expertly, with the air of a man who had done so a thousand times before. Neither of the kids realized they were receiving pat, nothing answers to most of their questions. They were too much in awe to be even speaking with him.

Finally, Elsa called everyone in for dinner. Elsa generally did not allow the kids to eat with Jake when he had a guest over � she said it was not proper decorum for an employee to take advantage of her position like that � but in this case she made an exception since Bigg G had, after all, come over specifically to meet them. Elsa herself stayed in the background while the four of them tore into her platter of tacos, her homemade Spanish rice, and her homemade frijoles. Gordon seemed particularly appreciative of the food. He put away four of the tacos and two helpings of the rice and beans.

"Ma'am," he told Elsa when he finally finished up, "those were, without a doubt, the best tacos I have ever had in my life. Jake was right. You are an excellent cook."

"Why thank you, Mr. G," she replied. "I've always made it my policy to be the very best at what I do. That is why I work for the likes of Mr. Kingsley. He appreciates the work and the toil that has gone into perfecting my profession."

"I appreciate it as well," Gordon said. "Any chance I might be able to steal you away from him once I get my next contract going?"

She pretended to think this over for a second. "No, I'm afraid not," she finally said. "I've spent far too much time breaking in Mr. Kingsley. I'd hate to have to start all over with someone new."

Gordon and Jake both laughed at this.

Elsa didn't smile. It was not in her nature. She did, however, pull an expensive camera from one of her apron pocket. "If it's not a violation of any copyright rules," she said, "may I take your picture with the children, Mr. G? I'm sure they would love having photographic proof of this encounter to share with their peers."

"Of course you may," Gordon replied, much to the delight of Delilah and Gerald.

She snapped off about a dozen shots, Gordon the centerpiece in all of them. Some were of the four of them at the table. Some were of Gordon posing with each of the children and then with the both of them together. Though they didn't seem particularly interested in having Jake in any of the shots, they had enough manners not to say so when Elsa posed the four of them together.

"And now," Elsa proclaimed once the photography session was at an end, "I believe it is time for Jake and his guest to leave the table and for a certain couple of freeloading ruffians to help me clean up this kitchen."

"Aww, Nana!" Gerald proclaimed. "Why you wanna be doing that to us?"

"Yeah, Nana," Delilah echoed. "How often do we get to be hangin' with Bigg G?"

"You've hung with Mr. G quite enough," Elsa said. "And I already let you out of a portion of your meal preparation duties on his behalf. You will not be escaping your clean-up obligations. Remember my rules for allowing you to take advantage of Mr. Kingsley's hospitality."

"We remember," both said sourly. The rules in question were that if they were going to be at her employer's house, they were damn sure going to help her with her duties. In truth, the two kids actually tended to slow her down a bit when they helped, but it was the point of the matter to Elsa. If you wanted something in this world, you had to pay the price for it. The price for using Jake's swimming pool and watching his big screen television and listening to his vast music collection was a certain amount of mandatory housework.

Jake knew his cue as well as the two children. He pushed back from the table and asked Gordon if he'd like a beer and a smoke out on the back deck. Gordon agreed that this was a stellar plan. They got up and, after making a quick stop at the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of Corona and a lime apiece, headed out the back door to the outside.

It was the nicest part of a summer day out on Jake's deck. Though it faced southward, the sizzling LA summer sun had moved far enough to the west that the privacy trees on that side of the yard blocked its rays from shining on the deck or the pool. They sat down at one of the redwood deck tables and Jake pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his shorts. He lit up and relished the first after-meal drag. Gordon pulled out his own pack of Kool menthols but made no move to extract one from the pack. Instead he pointed at Jake's pack.

"You mind if I get one of them?" he asked.

"Sure," Jake said with a shrug. "They're not menthols though."

"I know. That's why I want one," Gordon said, grabbing one from Jake's pack and lighting up. "I hate these fucking Kools." He exhaled slowly, his face showing an expression of bliss. "Ahhh," he groaned. "Now that's a proper smoke."

Jake looked at him strangely for a second. "If you don't like the Kools," he said, "why don't you just have them buy you some Marlboros or some Camels?" He knew, of course, that Gordon's smokes would be supplied by National Records � all recoupable on the expense reports.

"They won't do it," he said. "It's one of those image things they always pushing. Someone told them that a brother is supposed to smoke Kools, and that's all they buy me. They even get pissy with me if I use some of my allowance money to buy real smokes, especially if I do it at a club."

Jake shook his head, though not in disbelief. "I forgot what it was like to be under their thumb like that, all those weird ideas they get about what enhances the image and what doesn't. Like someone would decide they don't like your music anymore because they found out you liked to smoke Marlboros instead of Kools."

Gordon picked up his Corona bottle and took a good swig out of it. "They'd have a shitfit if they knew I was drinking this beaner beer too," he said. "They want me swilling down Colt 45 or King Cobra. I like to have a little scotch on the rocks every now and then � something I picked up from my old man, you know � but they'd probably try to breach me if they found out about that."

"With me, it was trying to regulate the women I dated," Jake said. "When they found out that Mindy Snow and I were going out, they acted like I'd just raped a nun in the middle of the Sistine Chapel. They swore to God I'd never sell another record if me and Mindy became public. And, of course, when we did become public, the next album we put out sold like wildfire."

Gordon got a sly smile on his face. "How was Mindy Snow anyway?" he asked.

"She was manipulative, self-centered, and a consummate liar," Jake told him.

"That's pretty raw," Gordon said.

"She was also about the best lay I've ever had," Jake added, "so I guess the price was almost worth it."

They had a laugh over that.

"Oh well," Gordon said. "The end of this first contract bullshit is now in sight. We're almost done with the album now. It'll be released within a month or so. After that, one more tour and I'm free as a bird."

Jake paused in the drink he was about to take and looked at his guest, wondering if he was deluded. "Free after this album?" he asked. "Isn't this only your third option period?"

"Goddamn right," Gordon said. "That's all they sign us rappers up for."

"Three?" Jake said. "They gave us six. I thought that was the standard industry first contract."

"Not for brothers it ain't," Gordon said. "I can't speak for any of them cracker rappers or the beaner rappers, but the record companies know there ain't no point in signing a brother to any more than three options. That's about the limit of working for 'the man' your audience is going to take. A brother has to go independent, or at least onto an independent label owned by someone else if he gonna maintain his street cred."

"Independent, huh?" Jake said. He had heard of independent labels, naturally, but had never looked too deeply into the subject since he knew it didn't represent true independence, unless you were prepared to buy your own recording studio, manufacturing plant, and distribution network � something that would cost upwards of sixty to seventy million dollars, not including employee payroll.

"The only way to go for a rapper," Gordon told him. "It's hard to be taken seriously if you're rappin' about white power and corporate America and all the injustices of the world and your album is being put out by National fucking Records, which, in case you ain't noticed, doesn't have a single brother workin' at anything above musician level."

"I suppose that's a good point," Jake said, "but isn't the whole concept nothing but a jerk-off? De facto independence? You're still using National Records' recording studio and you're still using their distribution network to get your albums out there. And they're still taking their share of your money, aren't they?"

"It's not quite that bad," Gordon said. "It's okay to use their distribution network as long as you have your own label name on your album and you have independence over what is put on that album. To be considered truly independent you have to be using your own studio � or at least another independent's studio � but as for the distribution of the albums, nobody cares about how that's done. You can use National or Aristocrat as long as that's all you're using them for."

"Hmm," Jake said thoughtfully. "Very interesting. And how much does National or Aristocrat get to take for using their network to get your albums out there?"

"As much as they can squeeze you for," Gordon told him.

"Naturally," Jake agreed. "But what's the going figure?"

"It depends on how popular you are and how much pull you'll have in negotiations," Gordon said. "Since I'm one of the hottest acts on the hip hop scene right now, it wouldn't be unreasonable for them to settle for forty percent of the gross profits from the album sales."

Jake raised his eyebrows. "Forty percent?" he asked.

"Give or take a percentage point or two," Gordon allowed. "If you can get a bidding war going on between two or three record companies, you might be able to get that down as low as thirty-five or so. I heard Ice-T was able to pull down thirty percent, but that might be just a rumor."

"Jesus Christ," Jake said, considering the possibilities. Under their current contract, they were collecting eighteen percent royalties on their album sales. That meant that National Records � their label � was collecting eighty-two percent of their profit. What Gordon was talking about here was changing that equation to the artist collecting up to seventy percent of their own album sale income. Seventy percent! That was more than a tripling of their income.

"I can see you getting all excited about this shit, Jake," Gordon said. "You must be nearing the end of your contract?"

"One more album and we're done," Jake confirmed.

"There are a few things you gotta consider here."

"Like what?" Jake asked.

"Well... first of all, you'll have to record and produce your own albums in your own studio, or at least pay for the time in someone else's. That's all gonna cost you some bank."

"True," Jake agreed.

"You'll also have to pay for everything else that goes along with making an album. You'll have to pay for the manufacturing and the packaging. You'll have to pay for all the shipping and the breakages and the stocking fees. You'll have to pay for advertising and promotion and put your own money up front to finance a tour. You gotta have a certain amount of bank in order to get something like this rolling, or at least have someone willing to bankroll you."

Jake saw where this was leading. "And if you don't sell enough albums to cover the cost of what you're putting out..."

"You'll be one bankrupt motherfucker," Gordon said.

It was a scary thought, but a liberating one at the same time. "So what's your plan?" Jake asked.

"I'm gonna start doing some networking as soon as this next tour is up," Gordon said. "I'm definitely going independent, but I might not be able to afford to step all the way out on my own at first. I'll have to get a bank to loan me a couple mil so I can rent studio time and keep putting food on my table until the income starts to flow. That shouldn't be too hard to do. Bankers are all a bunch of tight-ass whities but they know when there's money to be made. Once I get something recorded I can start negotiating for distribution with the various record companies. They make the agreement and the only thing left to do is pay for the manufacturing and promotion costs. Once the album is out there, the money will start rolling in as soon as the sales start. No more waiting for that quarterly royalty bullshit � not that I've made so much as a dime in royalties yet. I'm still about two hundred grand in the hole on recoupables, and falling faster with every day."

"What about that?" Jake asked. "Will National demand payment in full as soon as your contract expires?"

"Technically, they could," Gordon said. "But with someone as successful as I am, they would probably hold off and use it as a negotiating tool for the distribution contract. I should be able to get forgiveness of the debt as a condition if I sign with National or payment of it if I sign with someone else."

"You seem to know a lot about this," Jake said, quite impressed.

Gordon simply shrugged. "It's my business to know my business, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Jake said, nodding. "I think I do."

Gordon ended up staying for another three hours, during which time the two of them smoked eight bonghits of Jake's finest greenbud, put away almost a case of Corona, and completely exhausted the lime supply. They talked a little more about the independent label concept, a lot more about the Mindy Snow relationship ("Does she take it up the ass?" Gordon wanted to know. "And what do them titties of hers feel like? Man, those are some serious fuckin' funbags she got hangin'!"), and even a little about the current clash of powers going on within the band itself.

"I can sympathize with you," Gordon told Jake after being told the reasons why Jake was favoring Charlie over Darren. "I had to do the same thing to a homey of mine once. I didn't like it, still feel like shit about it sometimes, but I did it."

"What happened?" Jake asked.

"It was a brother I went to high school with in East Palo Alto," Gordon said. "He was my DJ when I was doing the clubs in Oakland and San Jose before National signed me. He was pretty good at the turntables you know, but not really the best at it. Still, he was my homey so I kept him on even though there were a few guys who were better than him that offered their services to me once I started to pick up a following.

"But as we started getting really popular... well, he started letting things go to his head, you know what I mean? He started scammin' on other guys' ladies just to say he did it. He started picking fights after the shows with people out in the audience. He started using the hard stuff while we was on stage. Now we ain't never had no rule about gettin' high before performing like you do � I always found a little weed was kind of helpful � but he was hitting on a rock pipe. Then he started hitting the rock pipe all the time. He started missing rehearsals, saying he didn't need to rehearse no more, that he had his shit down already, and, naturally, he started fuckin' up on stage every once in a while, just like your homey Darren."

"Did you talk to him about it?" Jake asked.

"At least a dozen times," Gordon confirmed. "He always said he'd slow down on the shit and stay in line, and he usually did for a week or two, but he always went back to being a fuck-up again. Finally, one day when we was playing a big gig in The City (Jake, like any northern Californian, knew that The City meant San Francisco) he flat out didn't show up at all and we had to cancel. I found out later that the motherfucker hooked up with a couple of nasty-ass crack whores he'd met at his dealer's crib and had spent the day fucking 'em in his apartment."

This was quite appalling to Jake, who, as a performer, adhered religiously to the motto: The show must go on. He himself had, at various times in his career, stepped onto stage while sick with the flu, with colds, with rampant diarrhea, with a fever of 102. He had played with a sprained wrist, a wrenched back, a mild concussion, and once he had even made it through a concert while suffering from strep throat. That a performer would not show up for a gig because he'd met a couple of women who wanted to fuck him... that was bordering on sacrilege. "What was his excuse?" Jake wanted to know.

"He said he forgot," Gordon said mildly.

"He forgot?" Jake asked.

Gordon nodded. "He forgot. It was the last thing he ever forgot while in my employ. I fired him right then and there. He begged me to reconsider. He pleaded with me. He threatened me. He brought up how long we'd been homeys and everything we'd ever been through together. He told me I was a fuckin' sell-out, that I forgot where I'd come from. But I held firm. He never stepped onto a stage with me again after that day. Of course, he ain't been my friend anymore either, but that's the price you gotta pay, ain't it?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "That's the price."

The very next day, Darren was destined to find out about that price. After less than twenty-four hours of stalemate in the Darren vs. Charlie issue, the Mexican standoff, as Pauline called it, was broken.

Jake's first inkling of the issue's possible resolution came at just after eight that morning. He was under the covers and snoring in his bed, still sleeping off the eleven Coronas and eight bonghits of the night before. Suddenly, someone was pounding on his door. He tried to ignore it and stay safely asleep but the pounding was continuous, insistent.

"All right, all right!" he finally yelled as the last vestiges of unconsciousness were driven forcibly away. "Stop that knocking!"

The knocking stopped.

Jake stared at the door for a few seconds, his eyes trying to adjust to the light, his heart pounding uncomfortably fast in his chest, his head throbbing distantly with a hangover headache. "Who in the hell is it?" he asked.

The door creaked open a foot or so and Elsa's head poked through. "Sorry to wake you, Mr. Kingsley," she said, "but you have a visitor."

"A visitor?" he barked, the throb in his head picking up a little as he did so. "I'm asleep, Elsa. I'm not expecting anyone. Tell whoever it is to leave a message and come back later."

"It's Mr. Cooper, Jake," Elsa told him. "He insists upon talking to you as soon as possible."

"Coop?" Jake asked.

"He seems very agitated about something. I thought it might be important."

Jake rubbed his temples a few times and then sat up, the sheet falling away from his bare chest. "Okay," he said, still trying to clear his head. "Put him in the dining room and tell him I'll be in as soon as I get some clothes on. Is there coffee made?"

Elsa looked insulted. "Of course," she said stiffly. "I just brewed a pot of Costa Rican breakfast blend."

"Right," Jake said. "I think I can smell it now. I'll be down in a few minutes. Why don't you see if Coop wants to stay for breakfast?"

"I'll do so," she said. "What would you like?"

"Oatmeal, coffee, and some juice will do me. Coop would probably dig some of that eggs Benedict you make."

"Right away, Mr. Kingsley," she said. The door shut and he heard her footsteps go tromping off down the hall.

It was actually closer to ten minutes before Jake was able to pull himself out of bed, stagger to the bathroom to relieve his straining bladder, and pull on a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. He went to the bar in his bedroom suite and poured a large glass of ice water. He drank it down without taking the glass from his lips, refilled it, and used half of the second glass to wash down a couple of Tylenol, a Vitamin C tablet, and a vitamin B-12 tablet � all of which were kept in ready supply in this location. He debated brushing his teeth for a moment but decided that it could wait until after breakfast.

He made his way downstairs and found Coop sitting at the dining room table, as instructed, sipping on a cup of Elsa's coffee. Coop looked tired and more than a little hungover himself. His eyes had bags under them and were moderately bloodshot. It appeared he hadn't shaved in at least two days. He was wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top with a pair of flip-flops on his feet.

"Wassup, Coop?" Jake asked as he sat down at the table across from him.

"Hey, Jake," he mumbled. "Sorry I got you outta bed so early, but I needed to talk to you."

"Okay," Jake said.

Elsa appeared, carrying a cup of steaming, aromatic coffee and another glass of ice water. She set them down in front of Jake.

"Thanks, Elsa," he said.

"Did you take your Tylenol and your vitamins?" she asked him.

"Yes, I did," he confirmed.

"Very good," she said. "Mr. Cooper has elected to go with the oatmeal and some toast for breakfast instead of the eggs Benedict. Will you be requiring anything else?"

"Nothing at the moment, thank you."

She nodded and made herself scarce.

Jake took a sip of the coffee and then chased it with another large slug of ice water. He looked up at Coop. "So what's up?" he asked.

"I been doing a lot of thinking," Coop said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Coop confirmed. "Thinking about this whole fucked up Darren and Charlie thing."

"I think we've all been doing a lot of thinking about that," Jake said. "Do you have an idea how to resolve it?"

Coop nodded. "Yeah," he said, and then said nothing more.

Jake waited for almost thirty seconds before saying, "So what's your idea, Coop?"

Coop sighed. "That ain't all that's been on my mind, you know?"

"Uh... no, I didn't know," Jake said.

"Pauline's your sister and all, so I'm sure she's already told you about... you know?"

Jake didn't know. He did not, in fact, have the slightest idea what Coop was talking about, nor did he really care at this particular moment. He wanted to hear what Coop had to say on the Darren vs. Charlie subject because if it were what he was hoping Coop would say, the issue would indeed be a long way toward being solved. But, like always, diplomacy was necessary in situations like this. "Pauline has not told me anything about you, Coop."

Coop looked at him as if he didn't believe him. "Oh really?"

"Really," Jake said. "Or at least if she did, it must not be memorable, because I don't know what it is you're referring to."

"She didn't tell you about the paternity suit?" Coop said.

Jake's eyes widened. No, she most definitely had not mentioned anything about that. "Paternity suit against who?" he asked. "Against you?"

"She really didn't tell you?"

"She really didn't tell me," Jake assured him. "Did someone name you in a paternity suit?"

Coop slumped forward a little and took a big slug out of his coffee. "Yeah," he said. "Some bitch I fucked last year says I knocked her up. She has a three-month old kid now and she filed suit against me last week."

This was actually enough to make Jake forget about the Darren vs. Charlie issue � at least for the moment. "Do you know this chick?" he asked. "Are you sure you fucked her?"

This might have seemed a strange question for most men � even the most amorous usually remembered those they'd had relationships with in the past year � but, for a rock star, it really wasn't. All five members of Intemperance had had sex with so many women in the course of their careers that they literally would not be able to look at any one woman and be able to say for sure if they'd been with her or not. But Coop apparently did remember. He nodded his head as soon as the question was out of Jake's mouth. "I'm sure," he said.

"Was she someone you banged more than once?"

"Yeah," Coop said. "I met her at Flamingo right after we got home from the Book tour. She's a junior investment banker or some shit like that. She was a really hot bitch with these big fake titties. You know how I like the big fake titties?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "I know how you like that."

"So I fucked her for about a week or so before I got tired of her and told her to hit the fuckin' highway. She went pretty peacefully. They don't always, you know."

"Yeah," Jake said. "That's the truth."

"Anyway, about the third or fourth day that I was fuckin' her... well... there was an accident."

"An accident?"

Coop shook his head in disgust and then hung it low. "I thought I'd finally found the perfect brand of condom," he said. "I had just bought me some of them lambskin ones, the ones that are supposed to be so thin you can hardly feel them. I put one on and I was slamming her on my living room couch and it started to feel really good. I was like, yeah! It really felt like I wasn't wearing anything at all, you know? Only, after I finished and pulled my shit out of her... well... I really wasn't wearing anything at all. The fuckin' thing had come off inside of her right after we started."

"Oh shit," Jake said.

"I had to go in and dig it out of her, man!" Coop said. "That was some gross shit!"

Jake winced a little. The image of Coop digging it out of her did not blend well with his hangover. He took a large sip of his coffee. "Yeah, I'm sure that was pretty gross all right. So what happened next? Did she ever tell you she was pregnant?"

He shook his head. "She never said shit. I never heard from her again until last week when I got served with the fuckin' paternity suit. The bitch is asking for twelve thousand dollars a month in child support! Twelve fucking thousand bucks! And that's only if I voluntarily give up all parental rights. If I want to have a relationship with this fuckin' kid, she wants twenty-five grand a month."

Jake whistled. That was pretty steep. "So I'm assuming by your questions of a few minutes ago that you talked to Pauline about this?"

"Yeah," he said. "She told me that if the kid is really mine I'm pretty much screwed. She also told me that with the accuracy of these paternity tests they've got these days there's probably no way the bitch's lawyer would've filed suit if she didn't really think it was mine. Not only that, everything matches up. It's all detailed in the lawsuit forms. The week I was banging her matches up perfectly when you compare it with the day the kid was born."

"And did she say why she didn't tell you about this?"

"She said she didn't want to be involved with me anymore and was hoping that I would never find out about the kid."

"But..." Jake said.

"But," Coop said, "she's run into some financial shit over the past few months. She can't work as much as she needs to and pay for childcare and all that shit. Someone told her that the father is responsible for helping to support the child and that's when she decided to file suit on my ass. Ain't that some fucked up shit, Jake?"

"I suppose you could look at it that way," Jake said. "But whether it's fucked up or not is irrelevant. Did Pauline set you up with a lawyer who deals with this sort of thing?"

Coop nodded. "She did," he said. "I'm supposed to meet with him tomorrow morning at ten o'clock."

"That's good," Jake said.

Coop was shaking his head in disbelief. "I still can't get over this, man," he said. "I've had me a couple thousand bitches in my time and never had a fuckin' rubber break or come off or had a bitch try to steal it or anything. And then the one time there's an accident � the one fucking time � the bitch gets knocked up. What are the fuckin' odds?"

Jake shrugged. "I'm sure Nerdly probably has exact figures on that, but I'd say about one in fourteen with all things being random."

"Is that all?" Coop said, appalled. "Doesn't being careful all these years count for nothin'?"

"Not when you're firing live sperm into a fertile womb without protection," Jake told him.

"Man," Coop said, slumping down again.

"I feel for you, man," Jake told him. "And I'm sure you're lawyer will be smart enough to tell you not to agree to anything before the results of the paternity test are in."

"Yeah, Pauline already told me that."

"So keep the faith. Maybe it's not really your kid after all."

"Yeah, maybe," Coop said, although he didn't look too hopeful about this.

"So anyway," Jake said, "what does all of this have to do with Darren and Charlie? I didn't quite catch what the connection was."

Coop looked at him as if he were an idiot. "The connection," he said, "is that I'm gonna be paying out twelve fucking grand a month for the next eighteen years."

"Assuming it's your kid," Jake said. "What about it?"

"What about it?" Coop said. "You guys are talking about going breach of contract and letting National sue us! You're talking about them taking all the money we already have away from us just because you and Matt both have to have your fuckin' way on this thing."

"I really don't think it will go that far, Coop," Jake said.

"If someone doesn't give in it will," Coop said. "You ain't gonna change your position and vote for Darren, are you?"

"No," Jake said. "I think that would be detrimental to the band and a big mistake. I've already put my views on this out on the table."

"The fuckin' table," Coop grunted miserably. "Matt's got his views out on that fuckin' table too. He wants Charlie gone and Darren back as much as you want the opposite. He'll never change his mind either. Both of you motherfuckers are willing to destroy this band and bankrupt us all just to prove who's got the biggest fucking dick!"

"Well... we've all seen each other's dicks before," Jake said, "and anyway, this issue is about much more than that. It's about what's best for the band."

"What's best for the band?" Coop said bitterly. "You think that destroying the band and bankrupting everyone in the process just because you two ego-fucking-maniacs can't come to an agreement on something is what's best for the band?"

Jake had to admit � somewhat guiltily � that Coop had a point there. Was this all about an internal power struggle that was transcending the issue in question? Wouldn't it be better for the band if Jake were to simply give in and allow Darren to return? Maybe. But wouldn't it also be much better for the band if Matt were the one to do that?

"Okay," Jake said slowly. "I will admit that you make a lot of sense on that one, but I'm afraid I'm not going to change my position if that's what you came here to try to convince me to do. Darren has used up all of his second chances. Charlie � as weird a motherfucker as he is � has proven himself to be the better choice. Matt feels he owes loyalty to Darren and I feel I owe it to Charlie."

"I know, man," Coop said. "I fuckin' know that. That leaves it to either me or Nerdly to break this fuckin' stalemate and keep us playing music and making money. Nerdly ain't willing to change his mind. I talked to him last night and he's as willing to go down with the ship as you and Matt are."

"Nerdly has a strong sense of what's right," Jake said.

"Yeah," Coop said, "and so do I. And what's right is keeping the band playing and getting our asses into that recording studio and out on tour. That's why I've decided to be the one to put an end to this shit."

"What do you mean?" Jake asked, although he had a pretty good idea. He prayed he was right.

He was. "I'm changing my vote," Coop said. "I'll vote to kick Darren out and keep Charlie. That'll put it four to two in your favor, Jake. I hate like hell to do something like this to Darren. You don't have any fucking idea how much doing this hurts, what kind of a fuckin' asshole I feel like � but I'm gonna do it."

Jake breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. "You're sure about this, Coop?" he asked. "Have you really thought this thing through?"

Coop nodded. "I've been up all goddamn night thinking it through," he said. "Like I said, it's the right thing to do."

"Have you told Matt yet?"

"No," Coop said. "You're the first one I've told. I was kind of hoping you'd try to talk me out of it."

"Unfortunately, I can't do that," Jake said. "I think you're doing the right thing and I applaud you for the courage it took to change your mind on this."

"Yeah," Coop said sourly. "I get lots of fuckin' applause, don't I? But it ain't the applause that keeps me from going bankrupt, is it? It's making records and going out on tour."

Jake nodded in respect. Sometimes it was easy to think of Coop as just a dumb drummer, a marijuana addicted conspiracy theory freak with a borderline paranoid disorder. But every once in a while he came up with something pretty profound. "That's true, Coop," Jake told him. "That's very true."

"I need to tell Matt," Coop said. "And I need to tell him today � as soon as possible."

"Yeah," Jake said. "You'll need to do that."

"I want you to go with me."

Jake looked at him, his mind already trying to formulate excuses for why he couldn't or shouldn't be there for that conversation. He was unable to come up with even a single one. Slowly, he nodded. "All right," he said. "Why don't we have breakfast and then give him a call? We'll go over there before noon."

Matt was spending most of his days and nights these days at his rented Los Angeles penthouse instead of his mansion in San Juan Capistrano. This was primarily due to the loss of his driver's license and the fact that Buxfield Limousine Service � which the band held an endorsement contract with � could not drive him back and forth on the long trip on a daily basis. Jake and Coop, each in their own vehicles, pulled into the building's underground parking garage just before eleven o'clock that morning and parked. They got out and met near Jake's car. Silently, they walked to the elevators, both of them dreading the conversation they were about to embark upon.

Matt had said little when Jake had called him earlier and asked if he and Coop could come over. He had simply told them to be there at eleven and hung up. He hadn't sounded happy. When they knocked on his door he opened it, wearing a tattered pair of sweat pants and nothing else. He was smoking a cigarette and sipping from a bottle of beer.

"Come in," he told them, shutting the door behind them. He waved them to seats in the living room and then sat down in a leather recliner.

"How you doin', Matt?" Coop said softly, trying to break the ice a little.

Matt just glared at him. "Let's get to the meat of the matter here, why don't we?" he told Coop. "You're gonna sell Darren out, ain't you, Coop?"

Coop couldn't meet his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "I'm changing my vote to Charlie. I'm sorry, man, but I'm just doing what I think I have to do."

Matt looked up at the ceiling and took a deep drag of his smoke. He looked back down again and glared at Jake this time. "You fuckin' got to him, didn't you?" he said. "You called him up and kept picking at him and chipping away at him until you turned him against his two best friends in the world! Are you fucking proud of yourself, Jake? Did you come in your fuckin' panties when he finally agreed to go along with you?"

Jake said nothing but he didn't drop his eyes.

"Jake didn't talk me into anything," Coop said. "I didn't talk to him after our meeting yesterday until a few hours ago. By then, I'd already changed my mind."

"Right," Matt said. "Like I believe that. How did he talk you into it, Coop? Did he get you fucked up first? Or did he just use his little lawyer sister to start talking legal shit to you?"

"That's enough of that, Matt," Jake said. "Coop came to his decision on his own for reasons of his own."

"The fuck he did," Matt spat.

"Hey, fuck you!" Coop suddenly yelled. "I've been up all night agonizing over this shit! Jake didn't talk me into anything! He didn't talk to me at all, unlike you who fuckin' called up Nerdly and tried to get him to change his vote!"

Matt paled the slightest bit. Jake's eyes widened.

"What was that?" Jake asked.

"He called Nerdly up while I was over there talking to him last night," Coop said. "He spent fifteen fuckin' minutes trying to tell Nerdly how he should change his vote over to Darren to keep you from taking over the whole goddamn operation and turning us into some easy-fuckin'-listening band."

Jake looked at Matt, feeling some of his own anger starting to rise now. "Oh really?" he asked. "You called up Nerdly to get him to change his mind and then when Coop actually does change it � through no effort on my part � you start playing the fuckin' martyr to me? You're the biggest fuckin' hypocrite I've met since that asshole Frank Overland."

Matt stood up suddenly, falling back on his instincts now that he was cornered. "Don't be calling me no fucking hypocrite!" he yelled at Jake, pointing an angry finger at his chest. "I'll cram my fuckin' hand down your throat and rip your trachea out and shove it up your fuckin' ass!"

Jake continued to look at him placidly. "Are you done?" he finally asked.

Matt's face was red, his eyes bulging, but he didn't take another step forward.

"The decision is made, Matt," Jake said. "Are you going to abide by it?"

"Why the fuck should I?" he asked. "This shit ain't right! You guys know I'm the leader of this band and you just used a technicality to take my authority away from me. How am I supposed to keep band discipline after this? How are we supposed to get anything done?"

"By doing what we did on the last album," Jake said. "We go in that warehouse and we put our songs together and we record them. What's so hard about that?"

"What's so hard about it is I don't want to play with that faggot freak anymore!" Matt yelled. "He gives me the fuckin' creeps and I don't like him. I can keep Darren in line and I ain't afraid he's always looking at my crank in the shower!"

"You've never been able to keep Darren in line before," Jake pointed out.

"It's different this time," Matt insisted.

"It isn't different, Matt!" Jake shouted at him. "And why don't you admit that Darren isn't really the issue here. You just don't want to lose. You grew up a little rich boy who always got everything he ever wanted in life and then you became a rock star and had even more shit handed to you. Now you're so used to always getting your way that you just can't stand the thought that someone is going to overrule you on something."

"You're full of shit!" Matt yelled. "This issue is about who is control of this band! This is my band and I've always been the leader of it and now you're trying to take over."

"This isn't a goddamn sailing vessel, Matt," Jake told him. "We don't need a captain to tell everyone what to do. We've always made band decisions together, both musically and operationally. We let you call yourself a leader because you seem to have some need for that, but nobody has been really in charge since we left D Street West and you know it."

Matt was fuming. He picked up his pack of cigarettes off the coffee table and lit one up, this despite the fact that he still had one burning in the ashtray. "This is fucking bullshit!" he said. "Just a bunch of psychobabble bullshit."

"Call it what you want," Jake said, "but I'll ask you again: Are you going to abide by the decision the band has made or are you going to refuse to play anymore unless Darren is the bass player?"

"And what if I do refuse?" Matt asked.

"Don't make me say it, Matt," Jake pleaded. "We really don't need to go there."

"I'm going there," Matt said. "Tell me what you're gonna do if I tell you to fuck off on this shit, if I say I ain't playing a goddamn note with that dick-sucking freak."

Jake sighed. "Then you would be putting us in a very awkward position," he said. "In order to avoid a breach of contract charge we would be forced to fire you from the band."

Matt's fists clenched so hard and so fast that his cigarette snapped in two, sending a shower of sparks down to the carpeted floor. "Fire me from the band? Me? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"No, Matt, I'm not," Jake said. "Any member of this band can be removed by a majority vote. Once Darren is voted out � which is pretty much a formality at this point � that would leave me, Coop, Charlie, Nerdly, and you as voting members."

"I ain't voting Matt out of the fuckin' band," Coop said alarmed. "I'm sorry, Jake, but I can't go that far."

"You wouldn't have to, Coop," Jake told him. "Me, Nerdly, and Charlie would all vote for it. We wouldn't have any choice."

"Don't try to bluff me, Jake," Matt said. "You can't fire me from Intemperance. I'm the goddamn guitar player. There ain't no Intemperance without me. There's no way in hell anyone would take the band seriously without me on the lead guitar."

"I know that," Jake said. "If we were forced to do that, Intemperance would cease to exist. National wouldn't authorize another album even if we did find another guitar player, even if that guitar player was a good as you are � which would be doubtful at best."

"So why are you trying to threaten me with that shit if it can't happen?"

"It's not a threat," Jake said. "It can happen and it will happen if you try to go to the wall on this. We'll fire you and the band will break up. National will not be able to file a breach of contract suit that way since it will be them who is making the decision not to utilize our next option period and not us trying to refuse to perform. That way, no one will lose any of their royalties, no one will be sued by National, and there will be no revision back to the previous contract. A year will go by and all of us will be able to start solo careers if we want. If that's the way you want to play it, well... then that's the way it will be. I'm open for that if you feel you can't work with me anymore after this."

Matt looked like he had just been punched in the stomach. His face was pale and his hands were still clenched into angry fists of rage. "You would break up the band over this shit, Jake?" he asked. "Put an end to Intemperance just so you could keep Freakboy in?"

"Isn't that pretty much what you're talking about doing?" Jake asked. "Breaking up the band just so you could keep Darren in?"

Matt didn't want to acknowledge this. He took two steps forward, so he was less than three feet from where Jake was sitting. He stared into his eyes. "Look me in the eye and tell me you ain't bluffing on this," he said.

Jake looked him in the eye. "I'm not bluffing on this, Matt. Darren will be voted out of the band and if you do not go along with the decision, I will be forced to call for a vote to fire you. Intemperance will cease to exist and I'll go with a solo career in a year or so."

Matt apparently saw the message he was looking for in Jake's eyes � or the message he wasn't looking for. He shook his head angrily. "Fuckin' bullshit," he said. He walked back to the couch and sat down. Once again he pulled out a cigarette and sparked up. After taking a few quick, angry drags, he looked at his two bandmates. "Someone is going to have to tell Darren about this shit."

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "I suppose you're right."

"I'll do it," Coop said. "It was my vote that put him out, so I guess I should have the fucking balls to look him in the eye and tell him so."

"I should make you do it, Coop," Matt said. "I really should. He should be able to look at the guy who fuckin' betrayed him when he gets the news."

Neither Jake nor Coop said anything to this.

"I should, but I'm not going to," Matt said. "I'll tell him myself. He should hear it from a friend, you know?"

"You don't need to go quite so overboard on the guilt tripping, Matt," Jake said.

"Fuck off, Jake," Matt said. "You said what you had to say and you laid your fuckin' cards on the table and you made me fold. Now that you've done all that shit, just get the fuck out of my house. You ain't welcome here anymore. You too, Coop. Just get your sell-out, betraying asses out of here. I'll have someone call you when it's time to start hitting the warehouse."

Jake stood up. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Matt," he told him. "There wasn't anything personal about any of this."

"You're wrong about that, Jake," Matt told him. "This was about as personal as you could get. Now get out."

They got out, both of them feeling sick to their stomachs and stressed out worse than anything they'd ever experienced before.

Jake thought the day couldn't possibly get any worse. Shortly after pulling into his garage after returning from his visit to Matt, he found out he was wrong.

Elsa was standing there as he stepped out of his BMW. She looked concerned.

"What is it?" he asked her.

"I tried to get hold of you, Mr. Kingsley," she said, "but I didn't know where you and Mr. Cooper had gone. I tried your sister's number and Mr. Cooper's number and Mr. Tisdale's number but Pauline was the only one to answer the phone and she didn't know where you were. I even tried the recording studio and that awful mannered man, Mr. Crow, but..."

Jake became frightened as he realized that Elsa was damn near babbling. Elsa was the last person in the world he would have thought capable of this behavior. "What's going on, Elsa?" he interrupted. "Why were you trying to get hold of me so bad?"

"It's Miss Brody," she said. "There's been some trouble at her house."

"What kind of trouble?" he asked. "Is she all right? Was it that freak that's been threatening her?"

"She's all right," Elsa said. "I talked to her myself just a few minutes ago." She considered for a second. "Physically, she's all right. I'm not so sure about her state of mind. She did not sound very good on the phone."

"Was she attacked?" Jake asked. "Did that fucking freak attack her?"

"The lady who has been threatening her was involved in some way," Elsa confirmed. "I don't know any of the details other than the attack was not successful and the woman in question has been arrested. Miss Brody wants you to call her at home as soon as you can. She said to let the machine pick up and then talk. Apparently the reporters are already trying to contact her about this."

Jake ran into the house and snatched up the first telephone he came to � in this case, the formal living room extension. He quickly dialed Helen's number from memory. It rang six times and the answering machine picked up. While it was still spewing out her curt, businesslike declaration that she couldn't come to the phone right now, Jake began to talk into the mouthpiece. "Helen, it's me. Pick up the phone."

There was a click, a whine of feedback, and then another click that cut off the feedback. Helen's voice, sounding weak and timid said, "Hi, Jake."

"Helen, are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm not hurt," she said softly.

"I'm sorry I wasn't home. I was out taking care of some business at Matt's house. Apparently Elsa called there but... well... Matt didn't answer the phone. What happened? She told me that freak tried to attack you."

"She didn't get a chance to try anything," Helen said. "The sheriff's department caught her before she could." She took a few deep breaths. "Jesus, Jake, that alarm system you made me install probably just saved my... just... just kept her from attacking me."

"What happened?" he asked. "Did she try to break into your house?"

"I was at the airport teaching a class," Helen said. "You know, the Introduction to the Principles of Flight class? I just got a load of new students last week and... and... anyway, I was teaching the class just like normal when our secretary came into the room and told me I had an important phone call. It was the alarm company that monitors my property. They told me that several of the motion sensors on the perimeter of the house had been tripped and wanted to know if anyone was home." The motion sensors in question were the best commercially available. They could be turned on and off by remote control from a quarter mile away and were capable of detecting anything weighing more than eighty pounds within a fifty foot radius around the house. A wrought iron fence that Jake had also had installed kept deer or large stray dogs from causing accidental activations.

"She was creeping around on your property?" Jake asked, feeling a shiver at the thought.

"Yeah," she answered. "But that's not all. I told the alarm company that nobody was supposed to be there and they told me they would send the sheriff's department over to investigate. A couple of deputies got to my house about ten minutes later and... and... Jesus." She took a few deep breaths again. "They found her � that Johansen bitch � hiding in the thick bushes right next to my garage door, right where I come out of the garage to walk to the house after I park my car."

"Fuck me," Jake whispered.

"Yeah," Helen grunted. "She was wearing camouflage fatigues and had camouflage make-up on her face. And she had a gun."

"A gun?" Jake said, feeling physically ill now.

"A thirty-eight revolver," Helen said. "And that's not all she had."

"It's not? What else?"

"She had a canvas bag with her," Helen said, her voice breaking on every word now. "Inside of it they found... they found..." She couldn't seem to go on.

"What did they find?" Jake asked gently.

He heard her swallow, heard her choke back a few tears. "She had... had... a pair of handcuffs in there along with a roll of duct tape, four butcher knives, and... and... a portable blow torch."

Jake's legs would no longer hold him up. He slumped down into the nearest chair and, for the first time in his life, had to put his head between his legs to keep from fainting.

Above Kern County, California

August 13, 1989

Jake sat alone in the cockpit of the 1982 Cessna 414 as it headed southeast high above the southern tip of the San Joaquin Valley. His hands rested lightly on the controls, making minute adjustments every now and then when the high-altitude winds pushed him off course to the Taft VOR transmitter he was navigating to. The avionics package of the plane included one of the most sophisticated autopilot systems available for a private aircraft � an autopilot capable of being programmed to fly the entire trip from shortly after take-off until shortly before landing � but Jake had it turned off at the moment. He was still enjoying the novelty of flying his own plane.

He made a quick scan of his instruments. His navigation needle was pegged dead center toward the VOR transmitter and the distance measuring equipment, or DME was showing him twenty-three nautical miles out from it. His altitude was seventeen thousand feet above sea level. Compass heading was 154 degrees. His airspeed was holding steady at one hundred and seventy two knots � just a hair above two hundred miles per hour. Each of his fuel tanks was well over half full. Cabin pressure was at the standard for eight thousand feet of altitude, comfortable enough to breathe but not enough to actually stress the airframe.

Satisfied that all was copasetic on the instrument panel, he looked outside, scanning in all directions, looking for other aircraft mostly, but also for weather phenomenon and landmarks. To the left he could see the western edge of the city of Bakersfield sprawled out on the valley floor like a relief map. Forward, he could see the mountains that made up the Los Padres National Forest, which he would soon be flying over, and beyond that, the brown haze of smog that marked the Los Angeles basin. To the right he could see the peaks of the Sierra Madres Mountain range and, beyond them, the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean stretching off to the horizon. Though he had spent thirteen of the last forty-eight hours in the air and had now logged more than eight hundred hours of total flight time, he still never tired of looking at the view from high in the air.

The Cessna 414 was Jake's latest acquisition. He had purchased it from a partner in a prestigious Chicago law firm. Since the partner in question was upgrading to a one third share of a Cessna Citation business jet and needed to free up some capital in order to make this purchase, he had been willing to let the 414 go to Jake for $185,000, about $50,000 less than the plane's actual resale value. Though Jill, his accountant, had pleaded with him to reconsider such an extravagant purchase (as well as the other extravagant purchase that was in the works), Jake had been unable to resist. After the quickest possible escrow period, the papers were signed, the official transfer of ownership was made, and Jake was now on the final leg of his flight to bring his new toy home to Brannigan Airport in Ventura County.

He had left the exclusive Chicago suburb of Winnetka at sunrise the previous day and had spent the better part of twelve hours hopping his way southwestward across the country to Winnemucca, Nevada, where he stayed the night in what passed for a four-star hotel. Early this morning took off from Winnemucca's small airport and flew to Westfield Executive Airport in the suburbs of Heritage County. In Heritage, he stayed awhile, visiting his parents for a few hours and then dropping off the final financial paperwork regarding the plane at Jill's office.

"Are you ready for next week?" he'd asked her after listening to her obligatory lecture on cutting down on his spending.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she told him. "I'll ask you one more time, Jake. Are you sure you won't reconsider? In light of the... you know... problems you're having with your bandmates, is it really wise to commit to something like this?"

"Probably not," Jake said with a shrug. "But I'm going to do it anyway."

Jill shook her head. "That's kind of what I thought you'd say."

Jake had lifted off from Westfield Exec � as it was known in Heritage � at 2:55 PM and climbed to his present altitude of seventeen thousand feet. He'd flown south and then southeast, navigating from VOR station to VOR station, roughly following the course of Interstate 5. And now, at 4:28 PM, he reached the Taft VOR station and watched as the second navigation radio went into action, locking onto the next and final station of his flight: the Brannigan VOR. The guidance needle swung slowly to the right, indicating that he should turn that way in order to head directly at the signal. The DME lit up with the calculated distance to fly: forty-three nautical miles. Jake banked the plane to the right until the VOR needle was centered. This put him on a compass heading of 182 � almost due south. Once on the correct course, he contacted air traffic control to request permission to start his descent. Permission was granted. He reduced power to the engines and pushed slightly forward on the control stick. The nose dipped toward the earth and the altimeter began to wind downward. The long flight was almost over.

He dropped down out of the sky, passing over the national forest and into the gently rolling hills of populated Ventura County. As he came within visual range of the airport the regional air traffic control passed him off to the local ATC. He entered the landing pattern for Brannigan Airport at 4:43 PM. As was usually the case at this particular field, there were no other planes landing or taking off at the moment and he was cleared right in. With his flaps fully extended, his airspeed at eighty-five knots, Jake pushed the lever that deployed his tricycle landing gear. He heard the brief whine of machinery from beneath and watched in satisfaction as all three gear lights on his panel turned green, indicating they were locked in place. He made his final turn toward the runway and reduced power even more. He came down smoothly and quietly. Since his two propellers turned in opposite directions, there wasn't even any torque to deal with as there would have been in his 172. He flared at the last second and touched down neatly with a slight thump. He retracted the flaps, neutralized the controls, and then taxied to the hanger he'd rented, parking just in front of the doors. He was back on familiar ground, safe and sound after flying alone for more than two thousand miles.

He expected Helen to come out to greet him. She would just be finishing with her last class of the day and she knew he had planned his arrival here to coincide with that. They hadn't seen each other in three days now and she had to be excited about checking out his new plane, if nothing else. But, by the time he got the wheels chocked and his bag removed from the storage compartment, there was no Helen in sight.

With a sigh, he shouldered his bag and started walking toward the collection of classroom buildings behind the main terminal. He was disappointed in her failure to show but not really all that surprised. Helen had not been herself of late. Though things had been a little touchy with her ever since the engine had gone out on the DC-10, her personality had undergone a radical shift from center after Jennifer Johansen was captured in her yard with a gun, a set of handcuffs, four knives, and a blowtorch. He hadn't seen the Helen he'd fallen in love with since that day.

Granted, finding a psycho in one's yard in possession of a gun, restraints, and a pyrogenic cutting tool was something to get a bit upset about. Especially when coupled with the fact that the psycho in question was going to get very little punishment for what she did, mostly because she hadn't been able to actually do it.

Johansen had refused to talk to the sheriff's department detectives or the district attorney's investigators who had interviewed her after her arrest, invoking her Fifth Amendment right to tell them nothing. Even her own lawyer, a veteran public defender appointed by Ventura County, hadn't been able to get anything out of her other than "I wasn't going to kill anyone." This was in response to the news that the DA's office wanted to charge her with attempted murder. At her arraignment hearing, she refused to talk to the judge at all. He ordered a psychiatric assessment of her to determine whether or not she was even sane enough to answer for her actions. She didn't tell the court-appointed shrink much � certainly nothing about her motivations or intentions � but it was enough for him to decide that Johansen suffered from bi-polar disorder and possibly some form of delusional disorder, but not schizophrenia. He pronounced her mentally competent enough to stand trial.

Things never made it that far. The deputy DA assigned to the case and Johansen's public defender put their heads together and took a realistic look at what she could actually be found guilty of. Though it was obvious to any thinking person what her intentions had been � she had planned to hold a gun to Helen long enough to handcuff her and get her into her house and then wrap her up in duct tape and go to work on her with the knives and the blow torch � the fact that she had not actually made it as far as confronting her victim before being caught somewhat limited the charges that could be filed against her. She could not be charged with attempted murder because there was no way to prove that murder was what she intended. She could not be charged with attempted kidnapping for the very same reason. Nor could she be charged with burglary since she had not entered or attempted to enter any of the structures or vehicles on Helen's property.

In the end, the DA's office worked out a deal in which she would plea guilty to carrying a concealed weapon, trespassing, and possession of burglary tools. In exchange for the plea and for agreeing to undergo psychiatric counseling for at least a year, she would do no jail time and would be placed on probation for one year. There was also, of course, the stipulation that she attempt no contact with Helen Brody, Jake Kingsley, or any of their family members or acquaintances. A temporary restraining order that had been granted the day of Johansen's arrest was made permanent and served by the judge himself. It stated in no uncertain terms that if Johansen was found within one hundred yards of Helen, Jake, their properties, or any of their acquaintances, her probation would immediately be revoked and she would do a year in the Ventura County Correctional Center.

"Do you understand?" the judge had asked her after explaining her sentence and the restrictions.

"I understand," she'd mumbled in return, her eyes looking down at the floor.

Later that day she was released from custody and went home a free woman. And Helen's personality had taken yet another dip toward the abyss.

Jake entered the classroom building now, finding it mostly empty and silent. The main classroom was locked tightly. Jake peered through the window and saw that all the chairs had been stacked atop the tables, all the papers and books stowed away, and the only sign of recent habitation was an equation, written on the blackboard in Helen's spiky, feminine script, that dealt with the weight vs. thrust and speed issue of powered flight. Jake went down the hall to Helen's small office. He tried the doorknob and found it locked. The blinds covering the window were pulled tightly down. There was, however, a sliver of light coming from beneath the door. Gently, he knocked on it. There was no answer. He knocked again, a little harder and a little longer this time.

A timid, careful voice drifted out to him. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Helen," he called back. "Jake."

"Okay," came the reply. "Hold on a second." And then... "Are you alone?"

"Yes, Helen," he said. "I'm alone."

"Okay."

He heard footsteps tromping across the ground. He heard the clicking of one then two then three locks being disengaged. The door slowly opened revealing Helen. She was standing back as far as she could while still being able to touch the door. She was dressed in her normal garb of jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt in question was very long on her, covering several inches of her waist. Her right hand rested beneath the shirt on the right waistband. Jake knew she had a SIG-Sauer 9mm concealed in a holster there. Since Johansen had been released from jail, she carried the gun with her everywhere and spent half of any given day with her hand resting on the butt of it.

"I'm alone, Helen," he told her again. "No need to draw down on me."

Eventually, she relaxed. A little. She took her hand off the gun and stepped back to let him into the office. "Hi, Jake," she said softly. "How was the flight?"

"It was good," he said. "The plane flies like a dream." He stepped forward to give her a hug. She stiffened a little at first and then put her arms around him and hugged back. It was a perfunctory embrace at best, followed up by a sterile, perfunctory kiss on the lips that lasted less than two seconds.

"I missed you," she said, though she didn't sound like she really had.

"I missed you too," he told her. "It would've been nice if you'd been with me."

She gave a frown. "We don't need to get into that again, do we?"

That, was the argument they'd had about her accompanying him on his journey to retrieve his new aircraft. Since it involved flying on a commercial aircraft to Chicago, Helen had absolutely refused to come along when he'd suggested it. She was apparently sticking to her vow of never setting foot inside a jet airliner again. "No," he said. "I guess we don't. I was kind of hoping to see you down on the flight line though. You did know I was coming in, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding anything but. "I figured I'd wait until you came to get me. I don't like... you know... going out there by myself anymore. If that psycho bitch isn't out there with a sniper rifle than some of those goddamn reporters might be."

"I suppose," Jake said, although a sniper rifle didn't really seem Johansen's style and as for the reporters, they'd been almost obsessed with the story for the first week or so, following Jake, Helen, and Helen's father anywhere they went, but as of the plea bargain and Johansen's release from jail, they had seemingly lost interest. "What are you doing in here?" he asked. "Correcting papers and grading tests?"

"No. All of that's already done. I was just waiting for you. You wanted me to be here, didn't you?"

"Uh... yeah," Jake said, "but only if you want to be here."

She shrugged disinterestedly. "It's no big deal."

"I see," Jake said, his voice a little troubled. Helen either didn't pick up on this or didn't care. "Well... uh... do you want to go look at the plane?"

"Sure," she said. "Let me go get my stuff."

Jake waited patiently in the hallway while she retrieved her leather briefcase from beneath her desk and shut off all the lights. She then closed the classroom door and spent the better part of two minutes using three different keys to engage all of the locks.

"That should do it," she said with satisfaction once the door was secure.

"I would think so," Jake agreed. "Shall we?"

They made their way out of the building and across the flight line to the hangar complex. Jake's new plane was still sitting in front of the hangar door. Jake felt a sense of pride and joy just looking at it, just at the thought that it was his and he could fly it whenever he wanted, go anywhere he wanted in it. He had just flown it halfway across the country and already he wanted to take it up again. He had expected that Helen's face would reflect at least some of this joy. It didn't. She was looking at it with no more interest than she would have shown at a picture of the aircraft in a sales brochure.

"It's nice," she said blankly, running a hand over the left wingtip, touching one of the propeller blades. "I'm happy for you."

"Let's take it up," Jake suggested. "You fly it."

"You know we're not supposed to do that, Jake," she said. And this was technically true. Both of them were still in the process of accumulating enough solo hours in a twin-engine pressurized aircraft to achieve official certification. Until that happened, they were forbidden by FAA regulations from carrying any passengers other than certified multi-engine flight instructors. They were operating now under the equivalent of a learner's permit.

"Nobody's gonna know, Helen," he told her.

"No, sorry," she said. "What if one of those photographers is creeping around and takes a picture of us getting in together? I don't want to chance it."

"Helen, that rule is just a technicality. When they say we can't have passengers, I don't think they were talking about fellow students."

"A passenger is a passenger," she told him. "And if I get caught flying outside the allowances of my certification level, my teaching certificate might be suspended. I'm just not going to chance it."

Jake felt a surge of frustration go through him. Wasn't this the same woman who had seduced him, her student, in an Omaha hotel room not so terribly long before? She hadn't been too worried about her teaching certificate then, had she? No, he seemed to recall that she'd been screaming in pleasure and squirting her vaginal juices all over his face. He bit back on making reference to this episode, knowing she would simply refuse to acknowledge it was the same sort of transgression.

"All right," Jake said. "I get your point. Why don't you take it up alone then?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you," he said. "You've finished the classes, just like me. You're allowed to solo alone in type. Take it up and cruise it to Catalina. I'll follow in the 172 and we'll have dinner in Avalon."

"You want me to fly your plane to Avalon?" she asked, as if Avalon were on the far side of the Sahara instead of less than one hundred nautical miles away.

"Right."

"Just to have dinner?"

"Right again," he said. "It's one of those spontaneous things that people in love are supposed to do."

"It would take me thirty minutes just to pre-flight that plane and get familiar with it," she said.

"It's the same plane was fly for our cert," he said. "Just a different year."

"It's different, isn't it? And it has different avionics, doesn't it? And then there's the matter of insurance. I'm sure I'm not covered to fly it."

"Actually, you are," Jake said. "I had them include you as a primary pilot."

"Oh... I see," she said, almost as if she were upset he'd done that. "Well... anyway, I'm not really comfortable with the thought of just jumping in your plane and flying off to Avalon in it. I'm also a little bit tired."

"Tired?"

"Yeah, it's been a long day. Can we just go out to Ritchie's?"

Ritchie's was a small, family owned country restaurant in the small town of Winterland about five miles from Helen's house. They specialized in good old high-calorie, high-fat, home-style meals. The food was very good, but Jake and Helen ate there so much he'd already worked his way though everything on the menu twice now.

"How about we drive into the city?" Jake suggested. "I can call and get us a reservation at Finnegan's or Bogart's."

Helen frowned at this suggestion. "I'm not really in the mood for dressing up tonight," she said. "You know how much I hate putting on airs."

Jake knew no such thing. She had always loved dressing up and 'putting on airs' in their earlier days. He suppressed another sigh, knowing that trying to push her would only lead to an argument. "All right," he said, trying to sound cheerful. "Ritchie's it is."

They drove there in separate cars. Once inside, they were seated at a booth near the back. Helen ordered the chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes � the same thing she always ordered here. Jake went with the fried chicken and coleslaw.

Conversation during the meal was sparse at best and mostly one-sided. Jake tried to tell her about his adventures on the trip from Chicago to Ventura � he had several interesting tales (interesting to other pilots anyway) about strange landing patterns, air traffic controllers who could barely speak English, weather problems and turbulence, and problems arranging fueling and hanger space � but she didn't seem the least bit engrossed. In fact, she hardly seemed to be paying attention at all. When she did answer him, it was short and monosyllabic.

"Is everything okay?" he was finally forced to ask her.

"Sure," she said. "Why do you ask?"

"You just don't seem yourself lately."

A shrug. "I've been through quite a bit lately, wouldn't you say?"

She would speak no more on the subject.

After paying the bill, they left and drove to Helen's house. She drove right up to the perimeter of the motion detectors before using her remote to deactivate them. After parking, she exited her vehicle like a cop approaching a hostile scene � gun in hand, her eyes peering everywhere. Jake made no comment. This was standard operating procedure for her these days.

Once she was satisfied the immediate perimeter of the house was clear, she opened the front door, deactivated the alarm, practically dragged Jake inside, and then slammed and locked the door behind them. She quickly reactivated the house alarm and the motion sensors out front. From there, she cleared each room one by one, gun in hand, until she was satisfied that Jenny Johansen or some other psycho wasn't hiding in a closet or under the bed (yes, she looked under all of the beds, utilizing a three-cell maglight to assist her).

"Okay," she said at last. "Everything seems to be in order." She holstered her weapon.

"Good," Jake said with a nod, letting the subject of her armed recon drop. The one time he'd brought it up, asking her if maybe she was going a bit overboard with the paranoia, it had led to a vicious, irrational verbal attack in which she'd thrown him out of the house and didn't speak to him for three days. Nor did she apologize to him when she did start speaking to him again.

"I'm gonna go get changed," she said.

"Sounds like a good idea," Jake agreed. He had a plethora of clothing, including sleepwear, stored in Helen's dresser. "I've been in these clothes since Winnemucca."

They went to her bedroom, the bedroom where Jake had slept with her, had sex with her, had made her scream out in passion and squirt her copious juices countless times. She pulled a pair of grey sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt out of a dresser drawer. Standing near the corner of the bed, she kicked off her shoes and then pulled off her socks. She dropped her jeans to the floor and removed her blouse, leaving her standing in a pair of sterile white panties and a matching underwire bra that barely contained her enormous breasts. Jake, allured by the sight of her partial nudity, reached out to her, clasping his hands around her middle, his fingertips stroking the soft skin of her midriff.

"I missed you," he told her.

She did not return the sentiment. Instead, she pried his fingers off of her body and stepped away from him, out of his reach.

"What's the matter?" he asked, biting back on his frustration. She had been increasingly unresponsive to his sexual advances over the past few weeks.

"I'm just not in the mood right now," she said, matter-of-factly. It was her standard answer to such inquiries.

"Helen," he said gently, "we haven't seen each other in three days. We haven't been with each other in more than a week now."

"I'm sorry, Jake," she said, sounding anything but. "I'm not in the mood. Maybe later."

She pulled the sweatpants on and then dropped the T-shirt over her torso, not bothering to take the brassiere off first � something he'd never seen her do when in the privacy of his or her home and dressing down for the evening. Helen's breasts were so large that she always took the bra off at night because the straps would cut into her shoulders.

Jake slowly undressed until he was completely nude. His manhood was half-erect just from seeing her body, from imaging the possibility of getting it on with her. She didn't comment on it as she normally did, didn't even glance at it. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants of his own and put nothing else on. By the time he was done, Helen was already out of the room

They watched television for about an hour, sitting on opposite ends of the couch. Finally, at around nine o'clock, she announced she was tired and heading up to bed. Jake followed her up.

She climbed into bed without removing any of her clothing. Jake climbed in after her. He reached for and began to caress her shoulder. She didn't stop him. She didn't acknowledge the touch either.

Finally, in frustration, he sighed and rolled over. Helen stayed on the other side of the bed, leaving nearly two feet of space between them.

"If you want to have sex with me, go ahead," she said, a tired resignation in her voice. "I'll do it."

"That's okay," Jake told her. "I don't enjoy it very much when I'm just being accommodated."

She did not reply. Within ten minutes her breathing took on the slow, regular pattern of sleep. Jake lay awake for quite some time, tossing, turning, unable to get comfortable. He was tired but his troubled mind just didn't want to shut down. Finally, at around midnight, he drifted off.

His dreams were vivid and unpleasant, frequently waking him with their intensity. This was something that had been occurring over the past month or so, becoming more recurrent these past few weeks. He dreamed most frequently of being in an airplane � usually his 172 but tonight, his new airplane � flying high above the ocean or the mountains, somewhere it was impossible to land, and having the engines suddenly die on him, leaving him to desperately try to restart them before he crashed. In the dream, his radios didn't work so he couldn't call for help, couldn't even let anyone know he was going down. The ground grew closer and closer while he kept futilely trying to restart the engines before he crashed. He always woke up before the fatal moment came, usually sweating, his heart hammering in his chest, adrenaline flowing freely in his veins.

He awoke just after seven o'clock the next morning, feeling tired and strung out. Helen had already showered, dressed, and eaten breakfast. He caught her just before she was about to walk out the door to head to the airport, where she had four training flights scheduled for the morning and two classes to teach in the afternoon.

"Bye," she told him as he poured a cup of coffee. She gave him a perfunctory peck on the lips and headed out the door. "Be sure to set the alarm when you leave."

"Right," he told her.

"Are you coming back here tonight?"

"No," he said. "I think I'll crash at home tonight."

She nodded. "Okay," she told him, not trying to change his mind as she had once habitually done. She pulled her gun out so she could clear the path to her car and left the house, closing the door behind her.

Jake stared at the door for a few moments and then carried his coffee to the bathroom so he could get dressed. He too had a long day before him.

Jake arrived at the Intemperance rehearsal warehouse at nine o'clock that morning, parking his BMW in his accustomed spot in front of the door. He was dressed in his standard rehearsal garb of blue jean shorts, a plain t-shirt, and tennis shoes. He punched in the security code for the main entrance and entered, walking across the mostly empty floor space to the very back, where the band's equipment was set up. Everyone else was already there. Nerdly was fussing with the soundboard. Coop and Charlie were sitting over by Coop's drum set, talking softly to each other about something. Matt sat by himself next to the main amplifier stack. He was smoking a cigarette and going over some of his music sheets. He was the only one not to greet Jake's arrival. Once again, business as usual.

Matt didn't greet anybody anymore. He didn't talk to anybody unless it was absolutely necessary. He showed up for their composition session each day and did what was required of him and that was about it. He didn't smoke marijuana with the rest of the band, didn't drink beer with them, and went out of his way to stay well away from them whenever they weren't actually playing. It wasn't a very productive way to do things, but it was, after five weeks, a far sight better than the way things had gone in the first five or six sessions.

The hostility between Matt and the rest of the band � particularly between Matt and Jake and Matt and Charlie � had been venomous at first. Yelling and screaming matches, threats of violence, and wild accusations had flown left and right over every issue, major, minor, or even completely irrelevant to the great scheme of things. Jake had started to think that they weren't going to be able to accomplish anything at all, especially not a twelve-song demo tape by their September 15 deadline.

This acrimony was at its absolute worst when they actually got their instruments turned on and tried to start composing on those first days. They tried to start with neutral ground, by rehashing the one song they'd agreed to do way back in 1988, before National had derailed their creative efforts in favor of the double live album. That one song was She Cut Me Loose, Jake's tribute to his break-up with Rachel, the waitress. Cut Me Loose had been about nine-tenths dialed in when they'd stopped working on it. It should have been a simple matter of re-acquainting with the tune and then working out the final details of producing it � the intro, the ending, and the specifics of the lead-in to the bridge were all that was left to put together. It didn't quite work out that way.

What should have taken no more than an afternoon's worth of work stretched out for the better part of three sessions with absolutely nothing being accomplished but more animosity and bad feelings. Matt would reject every suggestion that Jake would make about how to start the song, how to end it, how to lead into the bridge. Jake would similarly reject every suggestion that Matt made. There was no middle ground sought, no compromise suggested. Jake wanted to do things his way and Matt wanted to do things his way.

Everybody, including the two main combatants, knew that the real issue was not a minor difference in musical philosophies on minor parts of a song. No, the real issue was a struggle for control � a dick contest, as Coop would have put it. Matt wanted to assert that, despite being overruled and forced to cave on the Darren vs. Charlie issue, he was still the leader of the band and not simply a figurehead as Jake had suggested during the heat of that battle. Jake, in response, wanted Matt to know that he was not going to be pushed around just so he, Matt, could make some sort of a point. Cut Me Loose was Jake's song. He had written it, composed it, and introduced it, and he would be goddamned if he was going to let a foul-tempered guitar player tweak it around just to say he could. Also, Jake knew if he gave in on this issue, Matt would only be worse when there was something else, something major that needed to be decided.

On and on the fighting went, with the shouting and profanity and insults getting worse by the hour. Matt threatened violence multiple times. Several times Jake actually offered to take him up on his challenge to fight it out. Once they got as far as walking to the center of the warehouse and squaring off at each other before the other band members managed to break them up and drag them off in separate directions.

Interestingly enough, it was during the hottest part of the battle of wills, when the accusations and angry profanity were flying back and forth like gunfire in South Central LA, that an actual accord was reached. It was during the latest argument over the bridge intro to Cut Me, shortly after Matt and Jake had been dragged away from each other, when it happened.

"There is no fucking way," Jake screamed at Matt � not yelled, not raised his voice, but actually screamed with an angry finger pointed at Matt's chest � "that I'm gonna allow a fucking two-chord step-down between the goddamn chorus and the bridge! You want to destroy a song with some gay fucking shit like that, do it to one of your own songs, not one of mine!"

"Oh that's right," Matt returned, his vocal decibel level nicely in the same range as Jake's. "It's your fucking song. It's not an Intemperance song at all. It's a Jake fucking Kingsley solo effort! Well, by all fucking means, Massa Kingsley, let's do it your way. It'd only be right, suh! You jist tells me exactly how you wants it played, suh, and I plays it like a good nigga!"

Jake opened his mouth to retort � something on the order of if Matt got any more melodramatic he should go on the fucking Phil Donahue Show � but Nerdly spoke first. "Actually," he interjected, holding up a hand to silence Jake, "if I may?"

"Oh, now the massa's fucking lapdog chimes in," Matt said with disgust. "This should be pretty fuckin' rich."

Nerdly let the insult roll off his back. He was pretty good at that. "Actually, Matt," he said, "I think you may have just unwittingly suggested an acceptable solution to this dilemma."

"What?" Matt asked. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"The suggestion you just made," Nerdly said. "I think it's a valid course of action."

"You mean play exactly like Mr. Prima Donna Rimjobbing fuckin' Felcher wants me to?" Matt asked. "You must be out of your fucking mind. Don't you know fucking sarcasm when you hear it?"

"I have been known to miss that particular nuance of human communication from time to time," Nerdly admitted. "But in this case, I did not. I understood that you were speaking in jest. Jest or not, however, I am of the opinion that the suggestion in question can stand on its own merits."

"Forget it, Nerdly," Matt said. "There ain't no way in hell I'm letting anyone dictate to me like I'm a fucking studio hacker."

"I'll agree it is not an optimum solution," Nerdly said. "I do fear, however, that it is the only solution we have at this point in time. We have spent twenty-six point three hours now trying to compose and perfect a mere thirty seconds worth of music and we have accomplished exactly nothing. We have eleven more complete songs to work out in addition to this one. Something has to give, Matt. Cut Me Loose is a song of Jake's conception. Would it be all that bad to simply perform the chorus/bridge transition in the manner that Jake suggests?"

Matt opened his mouth, undoubtedly to give yet another acrid and angry reply, but this time Coop beat him to it. "He does have a point there, Matt," Coop said. "We could be done with this fuckin' thing and working on something else in an hour or so."

"And now the fuckin' traitor gives his two cents worth," Matt said. "Did Jake pull you aside last night and feed his position to you like he did over Freakboy? Did you let Freakboy stick his cock up your ass while you were selling me out?"

"No," Coop said slowly, angrily, "but I'm about to stick a couple of fuckin' drumsticks and a cymbal stand up your ass if you don't watch how the fuck you're talking to me."

"You think you can take me, you fuckin' fag lover?" Matt said, standing up and facing the drummer. "I'll wipe up this whole fuckin' warehouse with your two-faced, dick-sucking, head!"

Coop stood up, throwing his drumsticks to the ground. "You think so, motherfucker?" he demanded. "Let's fuckin' go! You need a fuckin' ass-kicking and I'm the motherfucker who's gonna give it to you."

"Bring it on!" Matt said. "Right here and right now!"

Charlie and Nerdly both grabbed Coop before he could make it two steps away from his drum set. Jake put his hand on Matt's shoulder. Matt tensed up and it looked like he was going to change his target and take a swing at Jake instead � after all, they'd been on the brink of that just fifteen minutes ago.

"This ain't solving anything," Jake said softly. "We can all kick each other's ass and end up in the fuckin' hospital but we ain't gonna be any closer to a solution when we get out. So why don't we just skip that part?"

Matt slowly unclenched his fists. He shot one last look at Coop and then sat back down in his chair. Coop continued to glare as well but shook off Nerdly and Charlie's hands and resumed his own seat.

"I'll play it your way, Jake," Matt finally said. "Just tell me how you want it done."

"All right then," Jake said. "Let's do it."

"But if you start barking orders at me and treating me like a studio hacker, I'm gonna fuckin' hit you! That's a motherfuckin' promise!"

"I won't treat you like a studio hacker," Jake promised.

They finished up the basic composition of the song. It actually took about two hours to do. Jake was allowed to dictate how the intro would be performed, how the chorus to bridge section would be played, and how the final ending would occur. The other musicians played as Jake wanted them to play, with only Nerdly making a few minor suggestions that had to do with tempo changes and timing. Matt kept his comments to himself and played his guitar expertly, just as he always had.

"You see?" Nerdly asked them when they had finally finished, written down their changes on the music sheets, and successfully run through the piece twice. "It is possible to work together despite the recent clash of egos and hard feelings."

"Right," Matt said. "Now how about we start the next song? We still have three hours left in this session.

The next song they decided to work on was called My Life. Written by Matt a few months before � before all the shit had seriously started to hit the fan � it was an intelligent, well-constructed piece in which Matt pontificated about the lifestyle of a hard-partying rock star in first person perspective. In the verses, he talked about his expensive house and his expensive car and the fact that he could no longer drive his expensive car because the state had revoked his privilege to do so. He talked of getting wasted and having any woman he desired just because of who he was. He talked about being worshiped by fans and how he sometimes liked this and sometimes wanted to hit them. The chorus sections of the song all started with my life is... and then used a variety of other lines to illustrate that point. For instance, the first chorus, after Matt's house and car and life of luxury were described, was:

My life is lavish. Yes, I'm better than you

Money? No object. Got no bills overdue

Got more rooms in my house than I ever could use

Got servants, got limos, can afford substance abuse

And the second chorus, after the verse describing Matt's wild sexual abandon and constant womanizing, was:

My life is sleazy; can have any bitch I want

Models, groupies, porn stars; I've screwed Miss Vermont

The mile high club? Got a gold member's card

The bitches want me, I use 'em, and then I discard

In general, Jake liked the song. It was fairly classic Matt Tisdale work in lyrics and was actually a step forward for him in musical composition. The basic musical backing for the lyrics started with a medium tempo power riff on Matt's guitar and backing by the acoustic sound of Jake's. Unlike most of Matt's songs � and most Intemperance songs in general � the rhythm guitar would not be playing all the time. It was to be mostly silent during the verses and would kick in strongly in the spaces between the verses and the chorus and feature strongly in somewhat of a dueling format during the instrumental portion after the second verse.

"I like it, Matt," Jake told him after Matt led them through it the first time � singing into his own microphone and playing unaccompanied on his guitar � and then explained the basic backing philosophy he was after. "I think it'll pound out really good."

Matt didn't acknowledge the praise. "I'm gonna go through it again," he said instead. "Let's start working the drums and bass in for the basics and then we'll work on the acoustic and piano later."

"Right," Jake said. "You want me to start singing it?"

"No, not yet," Matt said. And with that, he hit the first riff again.

Things went fairly smoothly for the rest of that day and they departed the warehouse, not exactly on good terms, but at least without cursing at each other. The problems started up again early the next day when it came time to start working on the transitional portions of My Life � the part that involved Jake's rhythm guitar and Nerdly's piano. Every time Jake or Nerdly would suggest some way of putting their instruments into the song, Matt would automatically veto it.

"I don't want a fucking G to F switchover in this part," he would tell Jake. "I want a fucking D major to C major alternation, just like I fucking wrote it."

Or when Nerdly would suggest an enhancement of the basic piano rhythm Matt had laid down, he would bark: "We ain't doing no fucking flourishes in this song. Just play the goddamn notes like I told you to."

Matt seemed to think that Jake and Nerdly were trying to take over his song when, in reality, they were simply trying to do what they'd always done on every Intemperance piece dating back to the pre-D Street West days. They were offering simple suggestions based on their musical knowledge and talent � the sort of things that had always enhanced their music in the past and made it what it was. When Jake or Nerdly or even Coop tried to explain this to Matt, however, he wanted to hear nothing about it.

"This is my fucking song!" he would yell. "Just like Cut Me Loose was Jake's fucking song! We will play my song my way. Is that clear?"

It was clear. And after another wasted day of constant bickering and precious little progression at their task, the band was finally forced to come to a basic accord on the dispute.

"All right," Jake said toward the end of the day, "it's obvious that there's only one way we're going to get anything done around here and make our submission deadline."

"And what might that be?" Matt asked cynically. "Put you in complete and total charge?"

"No, not exactly," Jake said. "We put whoever wrote the song in complete and total charge."

Matt looked at him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we do six of your songs, six of mine," Jake told him. "The songs you wrote, you tell us how to play and we'll play that way. We won't offer any suggestions on anything. When we do my songs, the same thing holds true � with one exception."

"What exception is that?" Jake asked.

"Unlike you, I do like input from the rest of the band so I'll still take suggestions. I will have ultimate say-so on whether or not to accept those suggestions and what I say is what ultimately goes. Is that fair?"

"What about when the time comes to put our playlist together for the album?" Matt asked.

"We generally put ten songs on the album," Jake said. "I'll pick my best five and you pick your best five and that'll be the album."

"What about the order of play?" Matt asked.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Jake said. "Quite frankly, I'd be thrilled as hell to have that to worry about right now."

As much as Matt wanted to argue about this plan, he simply could not. He knew it was not the optimum way to put things together, but he was also a realist enough to know that, at this point in the game, it was the only way things were going to get done. "All right," he said with a nod. "Deal. And I expect every one of you traitorous motherfuckers to stick with it."

They all stuck with it. And, admittedly, the bickering and fighting had been reduced considerably, if not entirely eliminated. They worked out My Life to an uneasy perfection and had then gone to work on another of Jake's songs, a tune called Lines On The Map, a fairly poignant and typical Jake Kingsley multi-tempo piece that discussed the fact that there were more than 185 separate governments on the Earth and that perhaps this was partially the reason why there was so much war and why nothing made any sense.

It was when they started the next set of songs, one by Matt and one by Jake, that more problems cropped up. In this case, both of the primary songwriters were equally guilty of the strife. Since it had been agreed that each of them were in control of their own tunes, they both wanted to record a song that did not really fit the Intemperance signature sound.

Matt's song, Faces At Dawn � basically a hard-driving piece about the ravishes of liquor and drug abuse on the body � was composed by using a heavy palm-muted guitar progression. It was essentially the sort of piece Matt had been trying to push on them for years, ever since hearing the Master Of Puppets album by Metallica. Granted, he had become the master of the palm-muted technique, developing an entirely new style that, if the song were ever recorded, would spawn an entirely new generation of imitators. The problem was that a modified palm-muted piece was still a palm-muted piece, which meant it was too up-tempo to mix well with a piano, which meant it would not fit Intemperance's signature sound.

"Where does Nerdly's piano fit into all this?" Jake asked when Matt first introduced the piece to them.

"We'll put some in," Matt said. "We'll do tempo changes between the chorus and the verses that'll slow down enough for piano work and then the entire bridge can be nothing but piano and your acoustic guitar."

"But during the bulk of the song, no piano at all?" Nerdly asked.

"That's right, Nerdly," Matt said, glaring at him. "No fuckin' piano at all. Do you need to be in the fuckin' spotlight every goddamn second?"

Jake and Nerdly looked at each other with concern and then simply shrugged. They played the song the way Matt wanted it played and although it did not sound like an Intemperance signature song, even Jake had to admit it was a well done piece of music.

That led to Jake's next song, which was just the opposite. It was called I See You, and was about the struggle between the meek side and the strong side in one's personality, how they complimented each other, and how a person could not function if one buried one's strong side in favor of the meek. Jake had written it shortly after returning home from the international tour and he considered it one of the best pieces lyrically he'd ever composed. The problem with it was that it was too slow of a piece to go on an Intemperance album. Musically, it could only be played to the accompaniment of a finger-picked acoustic guitar, a few piano notes, and maybe some soft bass notes, during the verses and the chorus. There was no room at all in most of the tune for a distorted electric lead. Jake had filed the tune away in his unused file quite some time before with a vague notion of pulling it out again if he ever went solo. But when Matt forced them to do a tune with very little piano in it, it occurred to Jake that the old rules were pretty much dead. He dusted the song off and introduced it at a session as soon as they had Faces At Dawn down.

"What the fuck was that shit?" Matt demanded after Jake did the first run through of it. "How in the fuck are we supposed to translate something like that to an electric riff?"

"We're not," Jake told him. "The verses and the chorus will be acoustic guitar only. We'll put in a basic electric riff for the bridge intro and then an extended, double distortion solo before the final verse. We'll up-tempo the climatic verse to include some accompanying distorted lead in the background and then fade to black after the last lyric."

"You're out of your fuckin' mind!" Matt accused. "No electric in the verses or the chorus? That's fuckin' easy listening shit!"

Jake simply shrugged with a smile on his face. "Do you need to be in the fuckin' spotlight every goddamn second?" he asked.

They argued some more, with some of the other members even casting their doubts about whether a piece like this should be on an Intemperance album, but Jake held the trump card ultimately. They had already agreed to do things the way the songwriter wanted them done.

They worked the song out and gradually, as everyone heard more and more of it, they began to like it. Jake's guitar picking during the vocal portions was rich, melodic, and mesmerizing. Charlie's bass strings and Nerdly's piano were worked in to provide the perfect accompaniment, and Jake's voice seem particularly suited to the slow, mournful verses and chorus. Although Matt remained bitter that his lead guitar played only a small part of the song, he was musician enough to do his very best on the parts where he did play. His first notes kicked in after the second chorus, playing a nicely composed riff to back the bridge vocals. After the bridge, Jake switched his guitar over to distortion and took over the electric riff while Matt put down an impressive solo that started medium tempo and progressed to a fast, finger-tapping climax one minute and twenty-seven seconds later. Following this, the first portion of the climactic verse was sung with no accompaniment at all except for Jake's acoustic and then the final chorus went back to two heavily distorted electrics in unison that kept up the tempo to the final fade-out.

All in all, Jake was very pleased with the end results. I See You was still nothing like a typical Intemperance tune, but he thought it one of the best pieces of music he'd ever composed. And he realized something very fundamental while the composition was underway. He liked having final say over the engineering of his tunes. He liked not having to answer to anyone but himself.

The tune they were working on now was called Grandstand, another non-traditional piece by Matt, and, so far, the tune they were having the most problems with. Grandstand was not just another heavy-metal palm-muted piece, although it did contain some very hard-driving riffs throughout it, it was something almost entirely new in the spectrum of music. It was a fast tempo power chord dominated song with heavy drum and bass backbeat, little piano, and little rhythm guitar, but Matt wanted the lyrics sung in the style of a rap song.

"A fucking rap song?" had been Jake's first reaction.

"It's not a fucking rap song," Matt replied. "You just sing it like one."

And so he'd demonstrated, running through the basic tune for the first time and singing the lyrics, in machine-gun, hard-core rap style, while grinding out the guitar. Jake's first impression was that it sounded like shit and that this was some sort of one-upping maneuver in response to I See You. It was only after they continued to try putting the tune together that Jake realized Matt was entirely serious.

"Matt," Jake said the one time he'd tried to reason with him on this song, "There's no way in hell National is going to put this song on the album. They'll use their veto power on it. This is more than just a departure from formula, it's a completely new style of music unlike anything that's been done before."

Jake had expected another profanity laced argument but, to his surprise, he got a reply that was almost reasonable. "Didn't we say the same thing about I Am Time?" Matt asked Jake. "Remember? A harmonica in place of a lead guitar? Unprecedented! Absurd! But we fuckin' did it, didn't we? And it fuckin' sold almost seven million copies as a single, didn't it? In fact, it's still one of the most played songs on rock radio."

Jake had to admit that Matt had a point. He argued the issue no more and tried the best he could to sing the song as Matt meant it to be sung. The problem was, Jake had never really listened to rap music and had never picked up on the nuances of conveying the proper emotion with his voice in that style. He tried the best he could but he just couldn't pull it off. It would only sound like what it was � Jake Kingsley shouting out lyrics instead of singing them. It got to the point where Matt was accusing him of deliberate sabotage.

"All right," Matt said now as everyone took their places in front of their microphones. "Let's do a few run-throughs of Grandeur again and see how bad Jake can fuck it up this time."

"I think it'll be better this week," Jake said, not rising to Matt's bait.

"Oh?" Matt asked. "And why would you think that?"

"I had dinner with Bigg G after we left for the week on Thursday," Jake said. "He helped me a little bit with the whole rap thing. I also spent most of my flying time on the way back from Chicago listening to Bigg G's albums on the CD player. Of course, I couldn't play them that loud because they'd drown out the radios, but I think I'm starting to see how it should go."

Matt looked at him, seemingly wondering if Jake was fucking with him. Apparently he decided that he might not be. "All right then," he said. "Let's see what you got."

They ran through it. The opening consisted of both guitars playing the palm-muted power riff while the drums and bass settled into the beat. And then the guitars fell silent, leaving only the rap-style backbeat of the bass and drums. Jake began to sing. The lyrics were basically about wanna-be musicians who did not have enough talent to move beyond club gigs, about how they could get the barest taste of the big time but knew they would never reach it. The emotion of the lyrics � as Matt intended them to be sung � was that of contemptuous teasing, a taunting of those with lesser talent by those who had it all. Jake knew the lyrics by heart now and did not have to refer to a sheet. Though they did not come out of his mouth with perfection on this first run-through, it was clear to the other band members that he was trying. They sounded much better than the previous week.

Matt nodded slowly when they finished the first run-through. "Could be better," he said. "But it has been worse too. Let's do it again. A little more projection this time."

"Right," Jake said.

They went through it again and again. Slowly, as they moved toward their lunch break, Jake began enjoy the theme of the song more and more. And as his enjoyment of it went up, the emotion of his singing got better and better.

"Now we're fucking getting somewhere," Matt said as they shut everything off for lunch. "Once you start applying yourself, we progress. How about we just skip the first part next time and go right to you applying yourself?"

Jake didn't answer him. He simply put his guitar down and headed for the refrigerator to get a beer to drink with his sandwich.

Like always, Matt ate apart from everyone else. He didn't talk to anyone until it was time to pick up their instruments and go back to work. And then, all he had to say was, "Let's go through it again. Maybe we'll be able to start working on the intro and the ending today."

By Friday afternoon, they had almost perfected Grandeur, with only a few minor details � all under the command of Matt � to work out. Even though they were on an increasingly tight schedule � September 15 was fast approaching and they only had five songs ready to put on the demo tape � Jake was forcing them all to take a week off because of something he had in the works. After months of searching and researching, Jill had finally found him a piece of property near Christchurch, New Zealand that fit his requirements and was also for sale. But there was no way in hell he was going to buy something without looking at it first. As such, he and Jill boarded a 747 from the first class lounge of LAX on Friday night. At 9:35 PM, the big jet roared into the sky, heading non-stop to Auckland, where they would catch another flight to Christchurch.

"I still think this is a horrible idea," Jill told him as the stewardesses began taking their first post-take-off drink orders.

"I don't pay you to like my ideas," Jake replied. "I pay you to make them happen."

"And to advise you when I think you're making a mistake," she added. "You're already paying for loans on two aircraft and one primary residence. Now you want to add a land purchase loan and a construction loan on top of that?"

"I do," Jake said. "You told me I could swing it, didn't you?"

"As long as your income remains steady," she said. "Remember though, you're about to enter into a period of uncertainty in regard to your income."

"What's the worst that can happen?" Jake said. "Real estate is real estate, isn't it? If my income goes down and I can't afford the payments anymore, I can just sell the property, can't I?"

"Well... yes," Jill admitted. "But there's no guarantee you'll get a fair market value if you have to unload it in a hurry."

"There's no guarantee in anything, Jill," Jake told her. "I've learned that if nothing else."

Their first drink orders came. Jake had a double rum and coke, Jill a glass of white wine. By the time they finished and ordered another round, the aircraft had leveled off at cruising altitude. They settled in for the long, overnight flight.

"Pauline told me that the record company and the band aren't too happy about you flying around the world right now," Jill said.

"No, nobody's real happy with me right now," Jake agreed. "I see where they're coming from."

"Do you?"

"Oh yes," he said. "We're just starting to hit some kind of equilibrium in our production and I'm forcing us to take a week off."

"How bad are things between you and the rest of the band?"

"As bad as they've ever been," he admitted. "Matt is still bitter over us ousting Darren and is working as hard as he can to make everyone's life miserable. We're having creative problems because everything has turned into a power struggle."

"Do you think he'll get over it?"

Jake took a long drink of his rum and coke. "I don't know," he finally said. "Sometimes I'm afraid that this is going to be the last Intemperance album."

"And yet you're going ahead with this purchase anyway?"

He nodded. "Who knows when a chance like this might come around again?"

She had no reply for that. To her, Jake was acting on impulse, something that accountants hated with every fiber of their being.

"What about your girlfriend?" Jill asked. "I can't help but notice that she isn't with us."

"She's afraid to fly," Jake said.

Jill raised her eyebrows. "Isn't she a flight instructor?"

"She is. She's not afraid to fly her own aircraft, she's afraid to fly commercial. She's always been like that to some degree, but after that little mishap we had in Boston a few months ago, she is officially phobic."

"So she's never going to see this property you're buying?" Jill asked.

He looked at her. "I don't know," he said. "We haven't been getting along too well lately."

"No?"

"No," he said. "In fact, we've hardly talked at all this past week. Something has changed in her. She's not the same person I fell in love with. It feels almost like... well... like she's letting go."

"That's too bad," Jill said. "I've only met her a few times, but she seemed very nice, very... oh... down to Earth."

"Yeah," Jake said. "And I think maybe she wants to stay down there."

"Ahh," Jill said with a nod. "I see."

They talked no more about Jake's social life. Both of them seemed to find the subject depressing. They did talk a little about Jill's social life. She had been dating a mid-level auditor for one of Heritage's major firms for about a year now and was starting to think that maybe he would be proposing to her soon.

"Really?" Jake asked. "He'll ask you to enter into legally sanctioned co-habitation?"

"Huh?" she asked.

"Never mind," Jake said with a chuckle. "How do your parents feel about him?" Jake had met her boyfriend twice now. He seemed a nice enough guy even though he had admitted to Jake that he'd never heard an Intemperance song all the way through before � he was in favor of AM talk radio or the easy listening music that could be found down at the end of the FM dial. He was also not Japanese.

"They were a little leery of him at first," Jill admitted. "But he is an accountant, you know, so it's not like I would be marrying outside the faith."

Jake laughed. That was actually one of the funniest things he'd ever heard Jill say.

They drifted off to sleep soon after, both of them wrapped up in blankets and resting their heads on pillows. Jill tossed and turned most of the night, never sleeping for more than thirty minutes at a stretch. Jake, a much more experienced flyer, dropped into a deep slumber and didn't stir for more than seven hours.

They landed in Auckland at 10:45 AM, New Zealand time. Because they'd crossed the International Date Line, it was not Saturday morning but Sunday morning. Jill pontificated about how strange it was to have lost an entire day.

"Don't worry," Jake assured her. "You'll get it back when we go home."

They had lunch at the airport and finished up just in time to board their next flight. After another hour and twenty minutes in the air, they were in Christchurch. A man named John Williams � the real estate agent Jill had been dealing with � met them at the airport. He was a short, portly man in his mid-forties dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit. He shook hands with Jake, who he had never met or spoken to before, and with Jill, who he had also never met but had spoken to many times on the phone.

"Would you like to go to your hotel and get checked in before I take you to the property?" he asked.

"No," Jake said. "Let's go see it right now. There will be time for checking in later."

"Right," Williams said smartly. "Off we go then."

It was raining in Christchurch, a cold, drenching winter rain that could soak someone to the bone if they stood out in it for more than a minute. Williams apologized for the weather � as if he'd accidentally conjured it up himself.

"Not your fault," Jake told him. "I'm the one who came here in the winter."

"It is quite nice here in the summer months, however," Williams assured him. "It rarely gets above thirty degrees here even in the middle of January. In fact, it tends to stay around twenty-three to twenty-five."

"That's good to know," Jake said, although he had already known this from his own research (and had converted the average temperatures to Fahrenheit, a system he actually understood).

They climbed into Williams' Toyota 4Runner � Jill cramming herself into the cramped back seat � and hit the road, heading for the small port town of Lyttelton, which was just south of Christchurch, separated from it by a small range of mountains called the Port Hills. It was in the southern slopes of these hills that Williams had found twenty acres of undeveloped land for sale. It was land that the seller's family had held since New Zealand's colonization days.

They drove through the city of Christchurch and entered a roadway tunnel that was more than a mile long. Williams explained that the tunnel, which had been burrowed through the Port Hills, was the best way to get from Christchurch to Lyttelton, but that there were also two roads that led over the Port Hills as well, one of which formed the southern boundary of the property they were going to see."

"So this place is pretty isolated then," Jake asked as the tunnel's lights flashed by one by one.

"By American standards, it is very isolated, Mr. Kingsley," Williams told him.

When they emerged from the south end of the tunnel it was almost like they'd driven fifty or sixty years back in time. Lyttelton was a small town � its population somewhere around 2500 � and looked like a fishing village straight of early twentieth century New England. The buildings were old but mostly well cared for. The streets were clean, with little traffic. The rain and the mist only served to add character to Jake's first impression of the place.

"There's not much for amenities in Lyttelton," Williams told Jake. "There are no fast food places, only a few restaurants, no large grocery stores or drug stores or shopping malls, but, of course, if you want any of those things it's only a fifteen minute drive back to Christchurch."

"What about the harbor?" Jake asked. "Is it a major industrial port?"

"It is," Williams said. "It is the main harbor for this section of South Island and also the base for most of the commercial fishing fleet. Most of the people who live in Lyttelton are employed either by the port or the fishing industry. If you like fresh fish there is a wonderful fisherman's wharf down there where you can buy seafood right off the boats."

"I love fish," Jake said whimsically, taking it all in. "Matt would love this place."

"Hopefully he'll visit it someday," Jill said.

"Yeah, hopefully," Jake agreed.

It was another fifteen-minute drive to the property they had come to see. They left the township of Lyttelton behind and began to climb upward into the southern slopes of the Port Hills. The road was barely wide enough to qualify as two-lane and it was full of potholes and uneven pavement. They went through a wicked series of turns and switchbacks, none of which were protected by guardrails, and climbed to an elevation of around one thousand feet, or, as Williams put it, three hundred meters. They met no other traffic along the way.

"Most people use the tunnel," Williams explained when Jake mentioned this. "The only people who use the summit road are those who have some sort of business up in the hills. There are farms up here and cattle grazing ground and several regional parks. If you're going from Lyttelton to Christchurch, however, the tunnel gets you there in three minutes where this road takes almost thirty."

"I see," Jake said thoughtfully, looking nervously down at a three hundred foot drop just outside his window.

Presently, Williams arrived at the property. He left the main road and, after switching his 4Runner into four-wheel drive, took them about a hundred yards down a muddy track that led into a green forest of walnut trees. The road ended abruptly and he shut off the engine.

"This is as far as we can go on foot," he told them. "We're actually on the property now, but most of it is up above the trees. I have rain jackets and umbrellas if you want to go take a look, but I'm afraid your feet are going to get a bit muddy no matter what."

"I can live with the mud," Jake said, looking around in wonder at the sturdy walnut trees.

They got out and trudged uphill, their feet, as promised, squelching through thick mud. They finally emerged from the trees and came out onto a large clearing that was roughly six hundred feet by four hundred feet and nestled up against one of the upslopes of the hills. To the north, the hill rose up another five or six hundred feet. To the east, west, and south, however, there was nothing but spectacular view.

"Wow," Jake said in awe as he took it all in. He could see the entire town of Lyttelton and its harbor spread out before him like a map. He could see islands in the bay, fishing boats and a few ships heading out or in from the open ocean. It was like he was looking at a picture postcard, although the rain did somewhat dampen the view a bit.

"It would seem you like it?" Williams asked.

"I do," Jake said, taking his eyes from the view and looking at the clearing again. Right near the back would be the perfect place to put a house. "Tell me something though, why is your client letting this land go so cheaply? It would seem this is a premium location."

"It is," Williams agreed. "And he's not really letting it go cheaply by New Zealand standards. His asking price is the equivalent of two hundred thousand American dollars."

"That is cheap for a plot like this," Jake said. "Is there something wrong here? Something I'm not being told? Is it not zoned for a residential plot? Is it impossible to get water or electricity up here? There must be some catch."

"There is no catch, Mr. Kingsley," Williams said. "We do not have things like zoning laws here, especially not in places like this. A man is allowed to do whatever he wishes with his own land as long as he is not infringing upon the rights of others with it. My client is in need of money for reasons I need not go into and he has decided to sell off some of the land that has been in his family for generations. Two hundred thousand American dollars would be a small fortune for him. And as for basic services, there is copious groundwater here that could be tapped with a well. For sewage, you could put in a septic tank or maybe two. As for electricity, the power lines run alongside the summit road � perhaps you noticed them as we drove up?"

Jake had noticed them. "Why hasn't anyone else bought the land from him?" he asked. "I can't be the first one to realize how great of a plot this is."

"You're not," Williams said. "My client himself has pondered the idea of building here for years. The problem is, that nobody here has enough money to make anything of this plot. The purchase of the land is expensive by New Zealand standards and that is only the beginning. In order to build a house here, one would have to improve the entryway into an actual road, pay to have electricity run to the building site, pay to have the wells dug, and pay to have a septic system put in, all before construction on the foundation for the house could even begin. Nobody in this particular portion of New Zealand has that kind of money, Mr. Kingsley. But you do, do you not?"

"Yes," Jake said, taking in the view again. "I do." He turned to Jill, who was still admiring the view. "What do you think?" he asked her.

"You already know my views on this whole subject," she said.

"Yes, I do," Jake agreed. "But other than that, what do you think?"

"I think you need to consider what Mr. Williams just said about no one being able to afford the land."

"What do you mean?" Jake asked.

"Suppose you go forth with this plan," she said. "You pay two hundred thousand dollars for the land and probably another hundred thousand bringing in services and making it suitable for construction. Assuming you use local labor and materials, you could probably get your house built for somewhere around four hundred thousand."

"That all sounds about right," Jake said.

"So, basically, by the time you're ready to take up occupancy in the house, you'll be about seven hundred thousand dollars in. If something were to go wrong with your income stream at this point, that is the absolute minimum you would have to sell the property for in order to break even." She turned to Williams. "Mr. Williams, how difficult would it be for Jake to unload such a property at such a price if he had to do it in a hurry?"

It was clear that Williams did not really want to answer this question � after all, it could be detrimental to his sale � but he was ethical enough to be truthful. "It would be very difficult," he admitted. "There are precious few in the Christchurch area who could afford such an extravagance. And of those who could, it is doubtful that many would want to. You might be able to sell it to someone from North Island, someone from Wellington or Auckland who wishes a summer home near the Alps, but even that is doubtful. Your best prospect for a fair market value sale would be to someone similar to yourself, Mr. Kingsley � a wealthy foreigner who has developed a love for South Island. And finding such a person would undoubtedly take a few months, possibly even a year or more."

"I see," Jake said thoughtfully. "So, in other words, I would be hanging my ass out into the wind by moving forward on this."

Williams blinked. "Uh... I'm not exactly familiar with that expression, Mr. Kingsley, but if it means you would be taking a risk, then yes, that is correct."

Jake nodded. "Well, my ass has been hanging in that wind for most of the past ten years now," he said. "Might as well add a little more windburn to those cheeks. I want this land. Let's start the ball rolling today, shall we?"

"As you wish, Mr. Kingsley," Williams said with a smile while Jill hid a frown.

Buying land, even in one's own country, was not simply a matter of walking into a real estate office, writing a check, signing a few documents, and then walking back out again with ownership papers in hand. When such a purchase was being made in a foreign country, things became even more complex. Though to Jill, Jake seemed to be acting on foolish impulse, in reality he planned to proceed very carefully.

The first things Jake wanted done were to make sure of all the legalities involved in developing the land once it was purchased. He wanted to know that the power company would string electricity to him, that he would be allowed to dig wells and install a septic system. Most of all, he wanted to be sure that there really were no restrictions on the building of an actual house on the property, that Williams wasn't trying to rook him into buying a big chunk of environmentally protected land where building was forbidden. He wanted a survey done of the land itself so he would know its exact boundaries and its exact terrain features. He then wanted geologists and insurance specialists to look over the property to assess how vulnerable it was to landslides or flooding.

Assuming all of this checked out favorably, Jake would go forth with the purchase of the property and then move onto step two of the project: the actual design and construction of the house. Jake knew that word would soon pass throughout the South Island and particularly in the Christchurch area, that a famous rock musician had bought a huge chunk of hillside property and was planning to build a mansion there (although he wasn't really going for mansion at all, a nice three to four thousand square foot single-level would do nicely). Some people would be thrilled about this, others, perhaps even the majority, would be resentful. Jake hoped to mitigate this resentment to some degree by using nothing but locals for skilled and unskilled labor. He wanted a Christchurch architecture firm to design the house and Christchurch construction workers to build it. He wanted Christchurch electricians and Christchurch plumbers and Christchurch well diggers and Christchurch septic installers. All of the building materials that could feasibly be purchased from Christchurch sources, would be purchased from them. And, of course, since that was part of the plan, someone had to look into the reliability and reputation off all of these Christchurch designers and builders and material supply networks.

There was very much to be done and Jake only had three days before he needed to start back to Los Angeles. Three days was not even enough time to get the first phases of the land purchase rolling. For that reason, Jill would be left behind to act as his agent in all manners related to the property acquisition. She wasn't terribly thrilled about this � Jill was very much a home-town girl who disliked even traveling to Los Angeles once a quarter to meet with Jake and Pauline � but Jake was making it well worth her while to stay for six or seven weeks in the southern hemisphere during the winter. He was putting her up in the best hotel in Christchurch, giving her unlimited use of a luxury rental car, paying for all of her meals, and paying her a thousand dollars a week above her normal salary.

"You'll keep me updated on your progress?" Jake asked her (again!) as she dropped him off at the Christchurch airport on Wednesday morning.

"I'll call you weekly," she promised. "Even more if something warrants it."

"That's my twin," Jake said with a smile. He gave her a hug and then picked up his bags and headed for check-in.

He flew back to Auckland and then waited in the first class lounge for two hours until his next flight was called. Because of the vagaries of the air travel system in this part of the world, Jake had been unable to secure a non-stop flight back to Los Angeles for this particular day. The next non-stop from Auckland to LAX was not scheduled to depart until Sunday night, which would have gotten him home mid-afternoon on Monday, jet-lagged, burned-out, and six hours late for rehearsal. The only flights available mid-week went first to Nadi, Fiji and required a three-hour layover before getting on another ten and a half hour flight to LAX, making for a seventeen hour trip � assuming no delays. For this reason, Jake had decided to break up the return flight a little. He had booked a suite at a resort in Nadi so he could stay overnight and then fly direct to LAX in the morning.

His plane landed in Nadi at 1:30 PM, local time. Jake left the airport and jumped in a taxi. The driver was a dark-skinned Fijian wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. His English was heavily accented but understandable.

"Where to, my friend?" he asked.

"Sheraton Fiji Resort," Jake told him. "Do you take American money?"

"American, French, Australian, I take it all," he said.

"Very good," Jake said, sitting back in the back seat and taking in the scenery as they left the airport. Jake would have thought that this was the off-season for a tropical resort � it was mid-August after all � but the streets were very crowded with tourists as they slowly made their way through the city. He asked the driver about this.

"Off season for Americans and Europeans maybe," the driver told him. "On season for Australians and New Zealanders and South Americans. Remember, when it summer in America, it winter in Australia."

Jake felt like slapping his own forehead in stupidity. Hadn't he just come from rainy Christchurch less than seven hours ago? "I guess you have a point there," he said, wiping some sweat from his forehead. He was still dressed in those winter clothes, in fact.

"Are you movie actor?" the driver asked him. "You look like someone I seen on the television."

"Nope," Jake said. "I'm not an actor. I've heard people say I look like Jake Kingsley though."

"Jake who?"

"Kingsley," Jake said with a smile. "He's an American rock singer. I honestly don't think I resemble him at all, but I get that a lot."

"Never heard of him," the driver said. "Are you sure you're not actor? Are you part of the movie they're filming on Malolo?"

"I'm quite sure," Jake said. "I don't even know what Malolo is."

"Island not far from here," the driver said. "Big Hollywood film studio has been here for past month filming movie picture there. Many of the actors and film people are staying at the Sheraton. Some very famous, they say."

Jake shook his head. "It's the first I've heard of it," he said. "I was on a business trip to Christchurch. I'm just staying overnight and catching a plane to Los Angeles in the morning."

"Ahh, I see," the driver said with a nod, as if he'd just been told the secret of the universe.

The Sheraton Resort was actually located on a small island separate from the city of Nadi. They drove across a long causeway and then down an access road that paralleled a stretch of sparkling beach crowded with tourists. The resort itself was spread out over several hundred acres directly on the beach. The driver pulled them into the entryway. Jake paid him the three dollars he asked for and added a ten for a tip. By the time he was done with this task, a bellhop had appeared to collect his luggage for him.

Jake's suite was as opulent and luxurious as he was accustomed to. It featured a view of the beach and the city of Nadi beyond it. He opened the doors to the balcony and spent a few minutes looking out at the scenery, his eyes drawn again and again to the many scantily clad female bodies playing in the surf or lying on beach loungers, some rubbing lotion on their skin. He realized that he was extremely horny. He hadn't had sexual contact with Helen in almost three weeks now, hadn't even whacked off in more than three days. How long would it take to go down to that beach and find some anonymous Australian tourist girl who would consent to a little action with Jake Kingsley? Maybe twenty minutes? Maybe less?

He shook these thoughts off, remembering how just such an encounter had caused the end of his relationship with Rachel the waitress. Maybe if he just got drunk instead? That had always been his catch-all solution for any of life's problems, hadn't it? And he was in the tropics on a beautiful tropical day after spending four days in the rainy squalor of New Zealand's winter. Shouldn't he enjoy the sun a little?

He thought so. Since he'd slept for two hours on the plane to Nadi, he felt almost refreshed. He opened his luggage and pulled out a bathing suit. He quickly stripped off his winter clothes and donned the suit. He put on his sunglasses and his favorite baseball cap, grabbed a towel from the suite's bathroom, and then headed downstairs.

He found a section of the beach that was relatively empty (meaning that the nearest group of people were only twenty feet away) and parked himself in a lounge chair. He put up a beach umbrella to guard himself from the worst of the sun's glare and then found a Fijian waiter who was willing to keep his rum and coke glass full at all times. He sat there, staring out at the water some of the time and staring at bikini-clad women most of the time. He smoked his cigarettes and sipped his drinks and before an hour had gone by he was pleasantly buzzed, working his way toward full-blown drunkenness.

Of course his presence on the beach did not go unnoticed for long. Soon, the tourists began to drift over to him, mostly women between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five, most Australian or New Zealanders. He chatted with them amicably, signed autographs for them, and even signed a breast or two. He was offered sex no less than ten times � sometimes with innuendo, sometimes explicitly � and though he would have dearly loved to have taken most of these women up on their offers, he held his ground and politely declined each time.

It was near six o'clock, as the sun was slowly sinking toward the western horizon, as he was just about to call it a day and head upstairs for some room service dinner and a few bottles of wine to cap off the day, that another woman approached him. She was dressed in a slinky white bikini that showed off an impressive body and an even more impressive set of breasts. It was a body that looked familiar to him in some way � intimately familiar. He noted a large � obscenely large � wedding ring on the woman's left ring finger. He looked up at her face and saw an oversized pair of dark sunglasses covering the woman's eyes and a large sunhat covering her hair. Though the disguise was enough to conceal her identity from the casual fan, it was not enough to conceal it from a man who had once kissed every square inch of that body, who had once ejaculated onto those perfect breasts.

"Mindy Snow," Jake said softly as he stared into her eyes. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Hi, Jake," Mindy said. "I heard some people talking about how you were here on the beach and I just had to come see for myself."

Jake sat up a little, still trying to convince himself that this was some sort of dream he'd fallen into. He hadn't seen Mindy Snow in person since the day she'd come to his apartment before he left for the Thrill Of Doing Business tour back in 1984 � more than five years ago. He hadn't talked to her since the day she called him in his hotel room out on that tour to let him know she was going to be discussing their relationship with Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show. That had been when she'd implied that Jake's abuse of her during their relationship had prepared her for her upcoming roll in Handle With Caution, a film about escaping from an abusive husband.

Mindy had starred or co-starred in seven films since then and was now one of America's most sought-after actresses. She had been nominated for five different Academy Awards � three for Best Actress and two for Best Supporting Actress � although she had yet to win one. Right after she had stopped dating Jake, she had started seeing and eventually became engaged to John Carlisle � a handsome character actor who was a favorite of producers making teen-oriented action/adventure flicks. They had broken up a few months after the engagement was announced and later that same year Mindy had married Jed Forthright � another action/adventure character actor � less than two months after meeting him. That marriage lasted for about eleven months before ending in the tried and true "irreconcilable differences". These days, if Jake had been following his Hollywood gossip correctly, she was about eighteen months into marriage number two � to Scott Adams Winslow, who was one of top five movie directors in Hollywood.

"What are you doing here, Mindy?" Jake asked, still reeling from the sight of her, from the idea of running into her in Fiji, which was about as far away from anything else in the world as you could possibly get.

"Making a film," she said simply. "We're working on a project called The Coming of the Dawn. A big chunk of the film takes place in a tropical jungle so we're shooting the scenes out on Malolo. They're shooting some scenes today that I'm not in, so I decided to hang out on the beach and soak up some sun."

"Ahhh," Jake said, remembering his cabbie mentioning that some Hollywood people were shooting a movie. He hadn't mentioned that Mindy Snow was one of the stars.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "You can't imagine how surprised I was when I started hearing Jake Kingsley was on the beach. I thought they were mistaken, that some long-haired loser who resembled you was trying to score some action in your name. I was actually coming over here to out you if that was what was happening."

"Nope," Jake said, "it's really me."

"So what gives?" she asked. "Last I heard, you and the rest of the guys were putting together your next album."

Jake was surprised, and a little disconcerted to hear that she knew what was going on in his life. "I was taking care of some business in New Zealand," he told her. "There weren't any direct flights back so I decided to stop here for a day instead of waiting in the airport for three hours for my connection."

"So you're leaving tomorrow?"

"Yep," he confirmed. "I'm on the ten o'clock to LAX."

"Oh, I envy you," she said, smiling whimsically. "This place is nice but I've been here for four weeks now. I long for civilization."

"I'll give LA my regards for you," he promised.

She stared at him for a moment. Finally, she said, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to invite me to sit down? Buy me a drink? Catch up on old times?"

"I wouldn't want people to think I was abusing you or anything," he said sourly.

She seemed to take this as a joke. "Oh you," she said, slapping playfully at his shoulder. "That's all water under the bridge, isn't it?" She walked over and pulled an empty lounger from a section of them a few yards away. After setting it up next to Jake's, she lay down on it and signaled for the nearest waiter.

"Yes, Ma'am?" he enquired.

"Bring me one of those tropical hurricanes please," she said. "And put it on Mr. Kingsley's tab."

"Yes, Ma'am," he agreed. "And another drink for you, Mr. Kingsley?"

Jake sighed. "Why the hell not?" he said.

"Right away, sir," the waiter said. He disappeared.

"Thanks, Jake," Mindy said. "You always were a good sport."

"Even when other people weren't," he said.

"Exactly," she said, picking up his pack of cigarettes. "Can I have one of these?"

"Help yourself," Jake told her. She took one out and put it in her mouth. Jake did not offer to light it for her. Finally she picked up the lighter and did it herself.

"So where's your girlfriend?" Mindy asked. "You're still dating that pilot girl, aren't you?"

"I am," Jake said. "She couldn't make it on this trip."

"I know how it is," Mindy said. "Scotty's off in Florida shooting a film too. We haven't seen each other in a month or so now."

"That's too bad," Jake said.

She simply shrugged. "The life we choose, huh? Remember how we used to say that when we were together?"

"Yeah, I remember. I still say it on occasion."

"I'm sure you do," she said. "It must be hard dating someone not in the business. I can't even imagine how you could make it work."

"It is trying at times," Jake admitted. "Especially when some psycho fan tries to kill her."

"I know," Mindy said. "That was horrible. It made me sick to my stomach when I heard about it. I mean, I've had a couple of obsessed fans in my time � I have six different restraining orders out against various people � but nothing like that. Did she really have... you know... a blowtorch with her when they arrested her? Or was that something the tabloid people made up?"

"She really did," Jake said. "Handcuffs, a set of knives, a gun, and a blowtorch. Fortunately she'd been kind enough to send a few threatening letters to me before she made her move and I was able to get an alarm and security system installed in Helen's house. It was that security system that saved her life. The motion detectors out front caught her and the cops were able to get there before Helen got home from work."

"God, that's just frightening," Mindy said. "Why is she still living in her own house? You guys have been dating now for what... a year or so?"

"We're coming up on year this month," Jake said.

"That whole thing in Omaha was when it started?" Mindy said with a giggle. "When those assholes broke into her room and stole shit out of her purse. Was that her first exposure to the power of the press?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "She wasn't too happy about that. Neither was her dad."

"Was that the first time you nailed her?" Mindy asked.

"Jesus, Mindy," Jake said, shaking his head. "I see you're as blunt as always."

"It's the only way to be, Jake," she told him. "So give it up. Was that the first time? The student seduces the teacher in a mid-west hotel suite after a dinner of smoked oysters and five hundred dollar wine? I bet you couldn't wait to get your hands on those boobies of hers. From the pictures I've seen in the tabs, she's got a mondo fucking rack."

Jake was still trying to hold on to his old resentment of Mindy � she had, after all, used him for purposes of her own and then cast him aside when she was done � but it was getting harder with each sentence that she said. He had always enjoyed Mindy's bluntness, her zest for life, the unbridled personality she possessed when she wasn't performing an act for someone. "Yeah," he told her. "That was the first time, although it wasn't me seducing her, it was her seducing me."

"Oh really?" Mindy said, rubbing her legs together gently. "Do tell the story."

Jake shrugged. "Not much to tell. She had made a few passes at me before that but I'd brushed her off. I didn't want to get involved with my flight instructor for one thing, and I was really hesitant to get involved with someone... you know... not in this lifestyle. I'd tried that before and it hadn't worked out very well."

"That would be the waitress you dated for a few months," Mindy said. "The one who broke up with you after you fucked that little redheaded girl in Mexico."

Once again Jake was a little disconcerted about how much she knew about his personal life. "What are doing, keeping a journal on me?"

"I've always liked you, Jake," she said. "Our time together is something I treasure greatly, even if it couldn't work out. Does it bother you that I keep tabs on you?"

"I'm not sure," he said truthfully. It did bother him a little, but on the other hand, it was also kind of flattering.

"Anyway," she said excitedly. "Let's hear about the seduction."

"As I said, there's not much to hear. The trip started out innocent enough, at least from my point of view. We were going to Omaha to pick up my new plane but I wasn't allowed to fly without an instructor onboard yet. She was my instructor. I booked us two suites in Omaha, but she didn't stay in hers. She found my weakness and exploited it." He looked into her eyes. "Some of you women are really good at that."

"Yes we are, aren't we?" Mindy said, a secret smile on her lips.

The waiter suddenly appeared, their drinks on his tray. He handed them out and Jake signed the slip, charging them to his hotel room. He added a generous tip. They took a few sips and stared out at the ocean, which was starting to fade with the coming twilight.

"So what was your business in New Zealand?" Mindy asked.

Jake told her of how he had fallen in love with the small, isolated country on their international tour and how he had just put into motion the purchase of twenty acres of hillside property overlooking the harbor. His story carried them through two drinks and three cigarettes. Mindy listened with rapt attention.

By the time he was done it was rapidly approaching full darkness. The beach was emptying of tourists and the waiters were preparing to start cleaning up their stations.

"Yes, I accept," Mindy suddenly said.

"What do you accept?" Jake asked.

"Your invitation to buy me dinner in the hotel restaurant."

"I don't recall asking you that," Jake said.

"I beat you to the punch," she said. "I know you weren't going to just let me go back to my room all alone and eat room service again."

Jake sensed something like danger here. He sensed it, but he'd had enough to drink to disregard the little warning bells that were going off in his brain. Now that she mentioned it, dinner with Mindy seemed a fine idea. They had been having a nice conversation and he was leaving early the next morning. Who knew when they would see each other again? And besides, she was married, wasn't she? She had what appeared to be a four or five karat diamond ring on her finger to prove it. Would it hurt anything to buy her dinner and talk a little more?

He thought not.

"Okay then," he told her. "Let me go get showered and dressed and I'll meet you there in forty-five minutes."

"It's a date," she said happily. She sat on the edge of her lounger and smiled, leaning forward and giving him a brief kiss on the cheek. Her lips were soft, gentle, and he remembered what they felt like in moments of passion. He shuddered a little at their touch, felt a brief surge of blood go rushing into his nether regions.

"Right," he said softly. "A date."

Jake dressed in slacks and a button-up short sleeved shirt. He began to have second thoughts about the wisdom of being seen in public with Mindy Snow, a well-documented ex-girlfriend, one, in fact, in which there were pictures floating around of the two of them naked on a boat. But he did have to eat tonight, didn't he? He poured himself a double shot of Johnny Walker Black from his suite's mini-bar and drank it down. The doubts disappeared within minutes. He put his key in his pocket and headed downstairs.

He found Mindy waiting for him just outside the restaurant entrance. She was dressed in a tropical one-piece dress that showed a considerable amount of cleavage and fell to just above her knees. She looked beautiful in it, very sexy, very alluring.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Jake asked her as a maitre d led them to a booth near the back of the room. "What about paparazzi?"

"There are no paparazzi here," Mindy told him. "That's one of the benefits of this place. It's too isolated for them."

"Okay," Jake said slowly. "But what about the guests? Won't they..."

"No," she said with a smile. "They won't. Trust me on this, Jake. I'm a happily married woman and I wouldn't dare put my reputation at risk. The press will never know that we're eating dinner together tonight. Not here."

He decided to trust her. After all, she had much more to lose if the press reported on them being together.

The cuisine was not the best Jake had ever had, but it wasn't bad either. He ate a New York steak smothered with saut�ed mushrooms and a baked potato. Mindy ate some sort of broiled chicken dish with a side salad. They both drank a lot of wine, four bottles in fact, two Cabernets to go with Jake's beef and two Chardonnays to go with Mindy's chicken. By the time they finished their desert and polished off a glass of cognac apiece, both of them were quite squiffed.

Conversation during dinner had been quite respectable and above-board. They talked of the old times they'd shared, sticking with the happier memories and avoiding the points of conflict. They talked of their lives since the break-up, Jake telling her the tale of their contract re-negotiation (as the end of the contract loomed closer and closer he felt less bound by the secrecy agreement contained within it) and how he had invested and spent his new-found wealth. Mindy told of fighting and struggling to get the roles she wanted, of the roles she'd turned down, especially the one she regretted the most.

"I was offered the lead in The Accused," she said bitterly, "but I turned it down because I didn't want to do another fucking abuse movie." She shook her head angrily. "And look what happened. That bitch Jody Foster got a fuckin' Oscar for it. I'm a better actress than she is!"

Finally, the last of the plates were cleared away and Jake signed the check (it was well over two hundred and fifty dollars when converted to American, thanks mostly to the wine). They stood and walked together out of the restaurant and back to the lobby of the hotel, which was sparsely populated at this time of the evening. Jake pushed the call button for the elevator.

"Are you on the top?" Jake asked Mindy, figuring that she was probably in a suite, which were located on the upper floors.

She giggled. "Sometimes I am, and sometimes I'm not."

Jake chuckled with her. "Don't I know that well," he said.

"Yes," she answered as the doors opened. "I'm in 1524."

"No shit," he said, allowing her to step inside. "I'm in 1531, just a few doors down."

"What are the odds?" she said as he followed her in.

The doors closed. They were alone in the elevator. It started to rise.

"Jake?" Mindy said.

"What?"

"I want you to come back to my room with me."

He looked at her, seeing her supple lips, her bulging cleavage, the look of wanting in her eyes. Yes, there was danger here after all. His instincts had been correct.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Mindy," he said.

"I do," she said, stepping closer to him. "I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me like you used to fuck me."

He was shaking his head but he didn't step back, didn't push her away. "You're married, Mindy," he said, perhaps a little weakly.

"I'm married to a guy who's rich, who fits my career, but who's halfway around the world at the moment. He also has a dick that's only four inches long and generally fires off within a minute or so of touching my pussy."

Jake licked his lips nervously. "Uh... I'm sorry to hear that, but..."

"He knows I find other outlets when he's not around," Mindy said, taking another step closer to him. "He does the same. He's probably banging some eighteen year old actress right now. So don't worry about my vows of fidelity."

"Mindy, really," Jake said, "I'm flattered, but..."

She reached out and took his right hand in hers. "I've had a lot of sex since we broke up, Jake," she told him, pulling his hand closer. He did not resist. "A lot of sex. But I've never had sex like you used to give it to me. There was a lot wrong with our relationship. I'll be the first to admit that. But you are, without a doubt, the best lover I've ever been with. The very best, Jake. And I want you now."

"Mindy," he squeaked, his resolve battered, his penis already hardening in his pants. She was standing right in front of him. Mindy Snow. The best lover he had ever experienced. And she was offering herself to him, demanding that he take her. But there was Helen to think about, wasn't there? He was involved with someone!

Mindy pulled his hand forward again, until it was just beneath the hem of her dress. She pushed his knuckles against the bare skin just above her knee. It was warm and soft and oh so smooth.

"I'm wet for you, Jake," she whispered, tugging his hand upward now. "My pussy is dripping at the thought of you sliding your cock into me."

"Mindy... Jesus," he groaned, still without the willpower to stop her.

She pulled his hand under her dress and into her crotch, spreading her legs a little to give him access. Soon, he felt his fingertips touching her slippery vaginal lips. As promised, they were very wet, very hot. And they were also very smooth.

"You feel that, Jake?" Mindy whispered. "I'm still shaved smooth as a baby's butt."

He felt it. He couldn't help himself. His fingers slid up and down her slit a few times, gathering that wetness.

"Remember when I had Carmella shave me for you?" Mindy asked, her lips now touching his ear, her tongue reaching out and licking at the lobe. "Do you remember that?"

"I remember," Jake croaked, his index finger now sliding into her body to the first knuckle. God, she was still tight, as tight as a teenager.

"I've never let it grow back since," she said. "And I never shave it myself. Not even once. I always have a girl shave it for me. And I always have her finger me until I come when she's done."

Jake actually shuddered. He plunged his finger all the way inside of her and then added a second. Their lips came together, their tongues reaching out and attacking one another. Her arms went around his back and he began to plunge his fingers in and out of her, feeling her wetness dripping down his wrist. She humped back against him enthusiasm.

"Oh yessss, Jake," she moaned into his mouth. "Oh fuck yes! You want me, don't you?"

"Yes," he moaned back, breaking the kiss and attacking her neck, licking her flesh, biting it.

"And you're gonna take me to my room and fuck me all night, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "I'm gonna fuck you all night!"

The elevator came to a stop. The doors opened. They went to Mindy's room and they fucked all night.

Heritage, California

October 31, 1989

The sound of knocking, gentle but insistent, woke Jake up. He slowly opened his eyes, feeling the familiar dryness in his throat, the mild pounding in his temples, that came from drinking a few too many the night before. He took in the wood paneling that surrounded him, the ceiling that was only eight feet above his head, the tight confines of the bedroom. It was both alien and nostalgically familiar to him, as was the surface he was lying upon. He was in the bedroom he had grown up in, in his parent's house, in the bed that they had bought for him back in 1974 or so, a super-twin that was too short for his fully-grown legs.

"Jake?" his father's voice called through the closed door. "It's eight o'clock. Time to get up. Mom has breakfast cooking."

"Wow," Jake whispered, shaking his head in awe, a powerful sense of d�j� vu sweeping over him. He had heard those words in this bed from that man hundreds of times in the past, usually on Sunday mornings when he was a child. The smells were even the same � the odor of bacon frying, bread toasting, coffee brewing. From outside the window above his head he could hear the chirping of birds and the rustling of branches from the old elm tree as they blew in the gentle morning breeze.

"Jake?" his dad called, giving a few more knocks. "Are you in there?"

"I'm here, Dad," he called back, intensifying the sensation. "I'll be out in a few minutes."

"Right," his dad said. "Breakfast in twenty minutes."

Nerdly's wedding was today, the reception of the semi-traditional Jewish ceremony beginning at one o'clock in the community center hall of Heritage's McAndrew's Park. Jake had flown his plane to Heritage yesterday afternoon and had spent the night in his old bedroom for the first time in almost twelve years. He could have stayed in a hotel room, of course, but Rabbi Mark Levenstein � the Cohen family rabbi who had been flown in from Los Angeles to officiate over the ceremony � had asked that both Nerdly and Jake, Nerdly's best man (as much as such a thing existed in a Jewish wedding) stay in their respective parents' houses, in their old rooms, as a symbolic gesture of the sanctity of the family. The rabbi was a very likable man � and a good sport, since he agreed to wear a Star Trek Next Generation outfit like the rest of the wedding party � and the request was both sincere and heartfelt enough that both Jake and Nerdly agreed to honor it.

And so now, here Jake was, waking up after a late night pounding beers with his father while watching sports highlights on cable television, feeling perhaps the eeriest sensation of d�j� vu he'd ever experienced. Little had changed in the room since he'd moved out at the age of eighteen. They had never turned it into a storage room or a sewing room or an office. They had maintained it instead as a rarely used guest room. The walls were the same, the bed was the same, the furniture was the same. All that was missing were the rock star posters and album covers that had once covered the walls like wallpaper.

One thing was markedly different, however. There was a naked female body curled up next to him. Though he had gotten laid in this bed more than once as a teenager (and a couple of times in his parent's bed as well), he had never had a girl actually stay the night with him. He reached out and caressed Helen's shoulder, gently waking her, taking comfort from the reality of her presence.

"Wazzit?" she mumbled, her eyes slowly opening. She had pounded a few beers the night before as well (the promise of temperance she'd made after her three-day hangover had long since been revoked) and was a little fuzzy on the uptake.

"Breakfast," Jake told her. "In twenty minutes."

"Breakfast?" she moaned. "I don't know about that."

"And coffee, and juice too," he added.

She yawned, stretching out her body a little. The sheet fell away from her chest, showing her bare breasts. Jake admired the way her stretching pushed them outward. "I guess that sounds good," she muttered.

He leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips. She did not resist or even passively submit. She kissed him back � a long, wet, sweet kiss full of affection.

"That was nice," he told her, stroking her hair.

"Yes," she said with a slight smile. "It was."

"I had a great time last night," he told her. "You were very... uh... passionate."

"I guess I was just in the mood this time," she said.

"I guess you were," he replied, kissing her again.

Jake wasn't sure what had suddenly come over Helen of late, but he certainly wasn't complaining. Their relationship had seemed to be spiraling down the toilet for the past three months, ever since Jenny Johansen had made her attempt on Helen's life. Though Johansen had not been seen or heard from since (the private investigator Jake had hired to keep tabs on her reported she had lost her job and was currently living in a welfare apartment near downtown), Helen's paranoia had never gone away. She still packed a gun wherever she went and obsessively locked herself in her house whenever she wasn't at work. And, until a few days ago, she seemed to have lost all interest in Jake as a person, as a lover, as a friend.

Ever since Jake's trip to New Zealand to get the ball rolling on his plot of isolated land, this spiral had seemed to increase in speed and volume. Though his transgression with Mindy Snow on the way home had not been discovered � by the press, by Helen, or by anyone else as far as he knew � the change in Helen when he'd arrived back home had been too stark to ignore, too severe to simply pass off as imagination. There had never been anything like overt hatred. That, at least, Jake probably could have dealt with. No, her attitude toward him since then had been an almost rabid indifference, as if he mattered little to her, as if she didn't care if he lived or died, showed up to see her or didn't. The sex life had ground to a complete and total standstill. She would still kiss him on occasion, but they were chaste kisses of the sort reserved for a sibling. She would offer to let him have sex with her, but it was always clear that she didn't really want to, that she planned no active participation in the event.

It had gotten to the point just a few days before that they hadn't seen each other in almost two weeks, that they hadn't even spoken on the phone in eight days. Jake had been starting to wonder if they'd silently broken up and he started mourning her loss. Helen was more than just a girlfriend to him. He loved her. He loved her more than he'd ever loved a woman before and it hurt him to think that it was over.

And then, just two days ago, Sunday afternoon, he landed his plane at Brannigan airport after a weekend trip to Heritage where he'd been rehearsing a musical number that he, his mother, and Nerdly's mother were planning to perform at the after-ceremony wedding festivities. After pushing his plane into its hangar, shouldering his overnight bag, and preparing to make the long trek to his car for the even longer drive home, he found Helen there, standing before him.

"Hi," she said brightly, leaning in and giving him a kiss on the mouth. "How was your flight?"

He looked at her strangely. This was the first time in two weeks he'd seen her, the first time in months he'd heard anything like animation in her voice, and she was acting like none of it had ever happened. "It was uh... fine," he told her. "I was rehearsing the song we're going to do at the wedding."

"How is it coming out?" she asked.

"I think we got it down," he said carefully. "I hope so, anyway. That was the last time before the wedding that we'll get to practice it."

"It's very sweet of you to write a song to play at Nerdly's wedding," she said. "And to play it with your mom and Nerdly's mom... I can't wait to hear it."

"You can't?"

"Nope," she said. "I've never heard you mom play her violin before."

Jake chewed his lips for a moment. "So... uh... you're still planning on coming to the wedding with me?" he asked her.

"Well, of course I am," she said, as if wondering why he would even suggest to the contrary. "I'm part of the wedding party, aren't I? I'm Sharon's maid of honor."

"Oh... well... okay then," he said. "I'd just assumed that... you know... after the last few weeks, that..."

She dismissed the last two weeks with a wave of her hand. "I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said. "A Jewish Star Trek wedding? There's no way I'm not gonna see this."

They'd gone out to dinner that night at a restaurant of his choosing. She didn't have her gun with her, didn't check the parking lot before getting out of the car, didn't even check behind them to see if they were followed. She remained bubbly and animated, almost like the old Helen. They had a great time and went back to Jake's house after. There, they spent the better part of two hours making steamy, passionate love in Jake's bed. Helen was a most enthusiastic participant in the activity.

The only sour spot in her seemingly miraculous transformation was her refusal to talk about any subject that was even remotely related to the problems they'd had. She refused to even admit that there had been any problems. She would change the subject, sometimes forcibly, whenever such a topic was brought up. It was like she was trying to pretend that the last three months had been nothing but blissful splendor, the time of their lives.

Jake actually found himself feeling uneasy at times about her return to the old Helen. What had happened to her? Had she simply kicked the funk she'd been immersed in and decided to go back to living life? Had someone � her father or perhaps Sharon or Pauline � had a talk with her and told her that she was driving on an express lane to the destruction of her relationship and possibly her sanity? Or was there something else going on? Some new stage to the breakdown she was undergoing?

Whatever it was, she'd climbed into Jake's plane with him late yesterday morning and took her position in the co-pilot's chair while Coop, Pauline, and Charlie sat in the back seats (Matt flew commercial to Heritage, Darren had simply refused to go to the wedding at all, and Nerdly himself had already been in Heritage since Saturday night). The two and a half hour flight had been pleasant enough and Helen had participated enthusiastically in the conversation as it had passed around the plane. She remained pleasant and talkative as they'd eaten dinner last night with Jake's parents and had stayed up late with Jake and his dad, drinking beer, commenting on the NFL season currently underway (she was of the ludicrous opinion that the 49ers were going to take their second straight Super Bowl this year) and the recently ended baseball season. That night, when they climbed into Jake's cramped adolescent bed, they had screwed quietly but enthusiastically for the better part of an hour before dropping off into a solid, though slightly uncomfortable slumber.

And now, as she got out of that bed stark naked, her hair in disarray, her eyes slightly bloodshot and bleary, her head probably pounding with a moderate beer hangover, she seemed as chipper as ever.

"Do we have time to shower before we go down?" she asked.

"Only if we do it together," he said with a smile.

She smiled back. "We'd better get at it then," she told him.

They put on robes and gathered up the sweats and t-shirts they planned to wear until it was time to dress for the wedding. After a quick check to make sure the coast was clear, they walked down the hallway to the upstairs bathroom and slipped inside. The shower was a standard tub/shower combo with a simple vinyl curtain across it. The water pressure was about half of what Jake was used to. Nevertheless, they stepped inside and spent a few glorious minutes soaping each other's bodies and washing each other's hair. As they rinsed off the last of the soap, Jake grasped her from behind, putting his arms around her middle and cupping her wet breasts beneath the spray. She leaned her head to the right and he started kissing her neck.

"Mmmm," she moaned softly, her hand reaching back to grasp his erection. "Do we have time for a quick one before we go down?"

They really didn't, but Jake elected to make the time. Helen bent over at the waist and he mounted her from behind, driving himself in and out of her quickly, forcefully until he shot off inside of her. She came just as he did, sending a spray of her warm juices down over his thighs.

The hot water was just starting to go cold when they finally stepped out. They quickly dried off, put their clothes on, picked up their towels and robes for the laundry basket, and headed downstairs. Breakfast was already on the table, cooling rapidly. Tom and Mary Kingsley gave their houseguests a few knowing looks and a few raised eyebrows but said nothing.

Jake, as the de facto best man for the groom, had procured limousines for the entire wedding party and made sure that they would all arrive at McAndrew's Park at the same time. The one that would carry his family arrived at Jake's parent's house at 12:30 PM. He, Helen, his mother, and his father climbed inside.

Jake and Helen were dressed in their Star Trek uniforms. They were not merely costumes, per se, but actual wardrobe from the set of the show itself. Though LeVar Burton and Patrick Stewart were unable to attend, they had been taken enough with Jake when he'd met them a few months before to arrange for him to borrow some uniforms and props from the studio. As such, Jake was wearing a red shirt with black shoulders, a pair of black pants, and Starfleet boots. He had the ranking of commander on his lapel, an actual Starfleet emblem on his breast, and an actual fake communicator clipped to his belt. With his long hair, he did not exactly look like Commander Riker, but the effect was otherwise perfect.

Helen, who was playing the part of Counselor Troi, was a much better illusion. Though she was larger in stature and bosom than the real Counselor Troi, her hair and facial features were similar. She wore a lavender shirt that dipped down, displaying part of her shoulders, the top of her chest, and a considerable amount of her cleavage (for some reason that Jake could not figure out, Counselor Troi got to show off her goods when nobody else was allowed to). Her hair was done in a manner that Marina Sirtis often utilized in the show. She had the Starfleet emblem on her chest and the rankings of Lieutenant Commander.

Jake's mother and father, though honored guests, were not part of the actual wedding party. As such, they were dressed a little more traditionally. Tom wore a black, three-piece suit and a red tie � one of the outfits he wore on the rare occasions he had to go to court. Mary wore a long, blue and white formal gown. Her brown hair was done up in a manner Jake hadn't seen on her in many years � perhaps not since Pauline's graduation from college.

McAndrew's Park, named for one of the railroad barons who had helped make Heritage what it was today, was a two hundred acre park right in the heart of the downtown district. Its central feature was a twelve acre rose garden featuring blooms from all over the world. Though it was late in the season, most of the bushes in the garden were still in bloom. Directly in the center of the garden, on a grassy area landscaped in just for wedding ceremonies (the city of Heritage made close to a hundred thousand dollars a year by renting out the garden and the community building adjacent to it for weddings), the traditional chuppah, or canopy, beneath which the actual wedding would take place, had been erected upon poles decorated with flowers.

The park was a beehive of activity as the limousine pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the community center building. Other limos were just arriving and cars were filling the parking spaces. Guest were milling about, starting to move toward the building. Photographers � both the official wedding photographers Jake had hired, and the inevitable newsprint, media hounds, and television photographers � formed a cluster near the front of the building. Two news vans, their aerials extended into the sky, were parked near the rear of the lot. Curious bystanders were perhaps the most numerous of the humans in view, although they were all being kept behind a security tape that was guarded by uniformed Heritage police officers (Jake had hired them as security � the city of Heritage made nearly half a million a year renting out its cops for security duty at private events) and a few armed private security guards.

They exited the limo into a barrage of camera clickings and flashbulb strobes. From the bystander area an excited babble erupted. Jake ignored all this and led Helen and his parents inside the secured area (as he thought of it). There, on the steps of the community center, the wedding party, with the notable exception of the groom, was gathering. Coop and Charlie were there, both dressed in their own uniforms. Coop was in the uniform of Data; Charlie was dressed as Geordi, complete with wrap-around eye goggles that, like all the other props, had come directly from the studio. Stan and Cynthia Archer, the father and mother of the groom, were dressed in generic star trek uniforms that could have belonged to anyone (although Stan was sporting an impressive weapons belt complete with phaser and tricorder). A man and a woman Jake did not know were also milling about in this area, dressed in Star Trek uniforms. Their presence, their age, and the fact that the man was wearing a yarmulke on his head, led Jake to the conclusion that these were Helen's parents. He had heard much about them on the international tour but had never actually met them before. Matt, so far, was nowhere to be seen.

"I guess we head inside," Jake's dad said as he spotted the line of more traditionally dressed guests entering the community center by another door.

"Yeah," Jake told him. "According to Nerd... uh... Bill, at this point the guests go inside and wait for the pre-wedding festivities to start. The first thing that will happen is that Bill will sign that contract thing in front of the rabbi and two witnesses � me and Matt."

"You mean the ketuvah?" Jake's mother said with a small smirk.

"Right, the ketuvah," Jake said. "After that, Bill will go see Sharon in her receiving room."

"Do we get to see that?" his mother asked.

"My understanding is that the honored guests � of which you and dad are included � get to see the veiling of the bride," Jake said.

"Groovy," his mom said wistfully, letting a little of her 1960s heyday show.

While his parents headed for the entryway, Jake and Helen walked over to the wedding party gathering and approached Sharon's parents.

"Mr. and Mrs. Cohen?" he asked politely.

"Mr. Kingsley," said the father, his eyes looking Jake up and down appraisingly. "You make a fairly unconvincing Commander Riker, if you don't mind my saying."

"I'll be the first to agree," Jake said. "And call me Jake, if you please. This is my girlfriend, Helen Brody."

"You can call me Helen," Helen said, before they had a chance to address her more formally.

"It's nice to meet you, Helen, you too, Jake," Mr. Cohen said. "I'm Robert, although you can call me Rob, and this is my wife, Jill."

Hands were shaken all around. Jill commented that Helen made a particularly voluptuous Counselor Troi and thanked her for standing next to Sharon at the ceremony.

"I will admit, I was a little surprised to be given the honor at first," Helen said. "Sharon and I grew quite close when we went abroad with Jake and Bill, but I would've thought she had a lifelong friend she would have wanted instead."

"Well... Sharon never made friends all that easily," said Jill with a shrug. "She never seemed to need friends. Always had her nose in a book or her ears in earphones. Quite frankly, we were astounded when she first told us that she was dating Bill. She had never dated anyone before. She didn't even go to her own prom. And then when she told us she was taking a year off from college to go on an international tour with him... well..."

"I can imagine how strange that must've been," Jake said, wondering just how conservative the elder Cohens actually were. They were conservative enough to not want their daughter marrying Nerdly unless he converted, but not so conservative that they weren't willing to don Star Trek outfits for the wedding.

"Strange hell," Rob said, shaking his head in wonder. "I was about ready to kill the son of a bitch at first. My daughter dating a rock and roll musician? And a gentile rock and roll musician at that?"

"It would seem he won you over at some point?" Helen asked.

"Making the conversion to Judaism went a long way toward that," Jill said. "It showed us how committed he actually was to Sharon, that he wasn't just trying to... you know."

"I know," Jake said.

"This whole thing has been a little overwhelming for us," Rob said. "We're a simple middle-class family. I'm an electrician and Jill is a schoolteacher. We never thought our daughter would end up marrying a celebrity. I mean, look at this. There are news cameras and reporters here at the wedding."

"I can totally relate to you there, Rob," Helen said with a laugh.

"Yes, I guess you must be going through the same thing," Rob agreed. "How do you deal with it?"

"Sometimes it's hard," she said, which was about the most she'd ever said on that particular subject. "Sometimes it's almost too much to take."

"We saw in the news about that demented woman who tried to attack you," Jill said. "That was just awful. Horrible."

"Yes," Helen agreed. "It was pretty bad. It kind of threw me for a loop for a little bit, to tell you the truth."

"We worried the same thing might happen to Sharon," Rob said.

"As Jake always tells me," Helen said, "it's all part of the life we choose. There's a lot of good that goes with it, but there's a lot of bad too. You have to make the choice as to whether or not the bad is worth the good. It seems Sharon has made her choice."

"Yes, it would seem she has," Rob agreed. "And to tell you the truth, Bill has grown on me. He's not at all what I thought a rock musician would be like. He's almost eerily smart and he's interested in all the same things that Sharon is. I didn't know what to make of this whole thing at first but now I believe Sharon was right when she told us that Bill was her soulmate."

"They say there's someone for everyone," Jill put in.

"That is what they say," Jake agreed thoughtfully.

Matt arrived a few minutes later, trudging alone out of his limousine and walking slowly to the gathering on the steps. He was dressed in the tan and black uniform of Lieutenant Warf. Though he had no make-up upon his face, he had the usual emblems and rank markings as well as a well-stocked weapons belt around his waist. He entered the secured area and came up the steps, where he stood away from everyone else, not bothering to introduce himself to Sharon's parents or converse in any way with his fellow band members.

After the problems and fighting that had followed in the wake of the Charlie vs. Darren clash, and the Jake vs. Matt clash in regard to music composition, Matt had not planned on attending the wedding at all. He had stated on multiple occasions, in no uncertain terms, that he had no wish to socialize with "any of you fuckin' sell-outs" in any way, shape, or form. It was a declaration he had managed to keep until today. The only place any of them saw Matt was in the rehearsal warehouse, where they'd so painfully composed their songs for the next album, and, these days, the recording studio, where they were now about halfway through the process of putting them down on digitally recorded tracks for later mixing and compilation onto a master recording.

The only reason he was here today, dressed in a Star Trek outfit as part of the wedding party, was because of publicity. Unsurprisingly, word had leaked to the entertainment media that the members of Intemperance, particularly the creative core members Matt, Jake, and Nerdly, were not getting along with each other. The leak had undoubtedly come from some of the recording studio personnel, who had now observed more than a month's worth of nitpicking, petty arguments, threats of violence, and even a few pushing and shoving matches between one or more of the musicians. So far, every Intemperance member, Pauline, and every National Records rep who was accosted by reporters asking for confirmation and elaboration of the feud had responded with some variation of the tried and true "There is no conflict within the band and the next album is coming along quite nicely" response. This did not keep the rumors from flying, however, particularly since they contained a strong grain of truth. It had been reported in American Watcher that Jake and Matt had engaged in a knockdown, drag-out fight over the subject of what order the songs would be recorded in. It was reported that Nerdly had gone home crying one day after Matt had pushed him down in one of the glass-walled recording booths following an argument about sound levels.

IS THIS THE END FOR INTEMPERANCE? read one front page article in the gossip rag.

TISDALE SAYS KINGSLEY IS DESTROYING THEIR MUSIC read another rag's headline.

Yet another read JAKE SAYS MATT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO WORK WITH.

Intricately constructed articles describing the fights in question followed all of these headlines. Though they were always exaggerated in scope, length, and virulence, all of them contained enough exact quotes and graphic descriptions to lend credence to the underlying theme of strife within the ranks. Thus, in order to maintain the crumbling illusion that everything with Intemperance was just peachy, Matt had been pretty much forced to attend the wedding as planned. To do anything less would have been as good as a signed admission that the rumors were true.

Nerdly and/or Sharon had apparently warned Rob and Jill that his relationship with Matt was not the greatest at the moment and that he was at the ceremony under protest. Neither of them made any attempt to go over and introduce themselves. They simply glanced at him a few times � perhaps a little nervously � and then seemed to dismiss him.

"It's almost time for us to go in, Helen," Jill said. "Why don't we start over to the bride's receiving room?"

"Okay," Helen responded. She gave Jake a quick kiss on the mouth. "See you inside," she told him.

"Right," Jake replied, giving her a brief, one-handed hug.

She and Jill headed for the other entrance, leaving Jake and Rob behind. Before Jake could say anything else, Coop came walking over. He had apparently already introduced himself before Jake's arrival, because Rob greeted him by name.

"How long until we go inside?" Coop asked.

"About another two minutes, by my watch," Rob told him.

"Ahhh, cool," Coop said, nodding wisely. He looked like he wanted to discuss something. As it turned out, he did. "So, Rob, dude," he said, "I got this question I wanted to ask, you know?"

"What's that?" Rob asked.

"Is it, like, true that you Jewish people are actually the ones who really control everything? You know, the government and the media and shit like that?"

Jake closed his eyes and shook his head a little. Leave it to Coop, he thought. The man who once asked John Denver to tell him some Vietnam sniper stories.

"It's absolutely true," Rob told him conspiratorially.

"No shit, dude?" Coop asked, wide-eyed.

"No shit," Rob confirmed. "You see, we all know each other and we're all engaged in a vast conspiracy against all non-Jews. Ever since we faked the Holocaust and you dumb gentiles gave us our own country to plot from, our plans have reached epic proportion. Pretty soon � within the next generation according to what they say at the weekly meetings � the entire western Hemisphere and select parts of Australia and New Guinea will be firmly in our hands."

"Whoa," Coop said, and then he started a little. "You're not just fuckin' with me, are you?"

"Of course he's just fucking with you, you moron," Jake told him.

Coop seemed almost disappointed by this revelation. "Aww, man," he said. "That ain't cool."

Jake decided to excuse himself from the conversation. He walked over to Matt, who was standing quietly near one of the brick planters adjacent to the doorway. Matt looked at him as he approached but said nothing.

"How you doing, Matt?" Jake asked him.

"Shitty," Matt said. "I'm back here in this armpit of a city dressed like a geek and attending some fuckin' freakfest instead of out on a fishing boat."

Jake nodded. "That's the way to keep the old spirits up," he said.

"It ain't my job to keep anyone's spirits up," Matt said. "I'm only here so the press won't have anything to report. Once this shit is over with, my ass is gone. I'm on the four o'clock back to LAX and on a charter boat at six tomorrow morning."

Jake nodded. "So I'm to assume you won't be offering a toast after the ceremony?"

"I will if you want me to," Matt said. "But I'm pretty sure no one wants to hear what I have to say about all this."

Jake sighed. "You're probably right," he agreed. "Looks like it's time to head in."

"Let the freakfest begin," Matt said.

They went inside and the male members of the wedding party were led into the main reception hall where the fifty some-odd guests were seated in chairs. Jake looked over the crowd for a moment, seeing his father near the front of the room. Also present were several members of the recording studio staff that Nerdly had befriended over the past few years. All of them looked out of place and uncomfortable in the suits they wore. There were fifteen or twenty people that Jake didn't know out there and he assumed they were the members of the Cohen family or congregation. Speckled throughout the guest seating areas were several recording stars that Nerdly had helped in the studio in the past.

Bigg G was there, resplendent in a three-piece custom-tailored suit. He wore shiny gold earrings and had lots of rings on his fingers. Christian Allen, one of National's most prominent country and western artists, sat with his wife in one of the aisle seats. He was sporting a yarmulke of his own instead of the cowboy hat he usually wore. Gordon Strong, drummer for Earthstone (and the man who had once given the fledgling Intemperance the most important advice they'd ever been given) was sitting next to his third wife. His eyes met Jake's and he gave him a nod. The bizarre glamour rocker Rob Stinson was there with "a friend" that everyone knew was his gay lover.

Rounding out the famous musician list was the caustic, ultra-feminist blues-folk singer Rhiannon George. She was there with her life-partner, Veronica Julius, the once-popular slutty-girl character actress who had co-starred with Mindy Snow in Thinner Than Water, shot down Matt's advances at the same premier party where Jake and Mindy had first met, and had, three years later, publicly come out of the closet when she'd met Rhiannon. Veronica had not had been offered a movie role since, but according to Nerdly, who often socialized with the couple, she was happier than she'd ever been in her life.

Conspicuously absent among the guests was anyone representing National Records' management. Crow, Doolittle, Bailey, and William Casting, the ultra-big guy himself, had not been given invitations, something the entertainment press had either not picked up on or didn't care enough about to report.

The Rabbi Levenstein, looking cool and quite striking in his class-A Starfleet uniform with the rank of admiral showing on his lapels, stood next to a podium, upon which a large, decorative scroll had been unrolled and held in place by sterling silver paperweights. Levenstein was in his early forties and sported a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. As the male members of the wedding party entered the room he asked for and received the attention of the guests.

"As there are many here who are unfamiliar with the traditional Jewish wedding ceremony, please allow me to explain our first step. Very soon the groom, Mr. William Archer, or, Nerdly as most of you know him, will emerge from the room behind me and will sign the ketuvah here before me, in the presence of his witnesses � Mr. Kingsley and Mr. Tisdale. The ketuvah is a marriage contract, outlining the vows that William promises to his bride during their marriage. Since it is traditional to drink lechaims after the signing of the document, I would ask at this time that everyone please visit the bar and obtain the drink of their choice. Not that I wish to encourage anyone to stray from temperance, as it were, but it is somewhat traditional that a proper lechaim be accompanied by some kind of distilled spirit."

Matt's eyes lit up for the first time in weeks. "Damn," he mumbled. "Now this is my kind of religion."

"I thought you'd like this part," Jake whispered back to him.

Matt grinned for a moment and then remembered he was supposed to be angry. He let the non-committal frown return.

While the guests made their way to the open bar to have shots of booze poured for them, the rabbi corralled Jake and Matt and told them it was time to go retrieve the groom.