Page 13 of Reverb

Oddly enough, despite the situation, I’d slept like the dead every night I roomed with him. Maybe some lizard-brain part of me knew that if danger approached in the night, my roommate would be able to drop-kick it into next week. My nervous system went off high alert and was able to fall straight into slumber.

I was starting to drift when Stone said in the darkness, “Maplethorpe.”

My eyes opened in surprise. We’d never had bedtime conversations. “I’m here. Where else would I be?”

He sighed, as if I was annoying him yet again. “We broke up for five years. The Road Kings did.”

“I’m aware.”

“When we finished the last tour, we were burned out. Finished. We went our separate ways. It took a while before I missed it, but eventually, I did.”

I was silent, keeping my snark to myself because I didn’t want him to stop.

“What I missed wasn’t drinking. It wasn’t getting fucked up. It wasn’t even the women who came on to us every night.”

“Oh, gross. Please spare me.”

“Zip it for once, would you? I’m trying to tell you something here. You’d think someone who asks as many questions as you do would listen to an answer for once in her life.”

I pressed my lips together in the dark, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m trying to explain that I didn’t miss any of that shit. What I missed was playing music in front of a crowd. With my bandmates. The fans and the fucking music—those were the only things I missed. And the other three felt the same. We’re weeks into this tour, and we still don’t miss any of that shit. We just want to play. Does that solve the mystery for you? Does that explain why there’s no party backstage?”

“A little.” I sounded grudging. “I’m starting to understand how exhausting this schedule is. Are they all like that?”

“Yes,” he said. “Now go to sleep.”

“But I have more questions.”

“No.”

I let out a sigh. “Stone, come on. I’m not the enemy.”

“The jury’s out on that. Still—no.”

“You are such an ass.” I punched my pillow and rolled onto my side, away from him. “You know, when I interviewed Travis White, he was very forthcoming.”

It was an excellent dig. I knew now that the Road Kings hated Seven Dog Down, and everything they stood for—chart domination, sellout status, commercial success—with a passion. They hated Travis White, the band’s lead singer, the most. The interview I’d published with Travis had been my first big break, which had led to the opportunity to write about the Road Kings.

Travis White was in his twenties, a multimillionaire, and drop-dead gorgeous. He had dirty blond hair, cheekbones that could cut glass, a smoky singing voice, and a lithe, flawless body. The perfect guy to needle Stone with.

It worked. “I bet he was forthcoming,” Stone grunted, making the last word sound positively filthy. I felt amused and turned on at the same time.

“He was such a gentleman,” I said, making my voice sound a little dreamy. It was easy to act when Stone couldn’t see my face. “So sweet. So charming and vulnerable. So open. I still have his number. Maybe I’ll give him a call.”

“Definitely do that,” Stone said, “if you want a venereal disease and a coke habit.”

“He doesn’t do drugs.”

“Is that what he told you?” He sounded amused. “Sure.”

“He doesn’t.” I hadn’t seen or heard any evidence of it, anyway. “He doesn’t sleep with groupies, either.”

“My god.” I heard a rasp as Stone rubbed his hands over his face. I couldn’t see him—both because of the dark and the fact that I didn’t have my glasses on—but I could picture him lying on his back, looking pained. “Listen, Maplethorpe, I can’t believe you’re this naive. You can’t be so dense if you’re going to cover the music business. The first thing you need to learn is that every musician is a dirtbag and a liar. Every single one.”

You aren’t. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I realized in time that it wasn’t a good idea to say them. If I did, it would sound like a compliment and go straight to his already-oversized head. “I’m not naive,” I said instead. “If Travis was coked out, I would be able to tell. Give me a little credit.”

“How would you know? Based on all of the coke you’ve done?” When I was silent, Stone continued, “I didn’t think so. Look, I’m just giving you some advice here. In this business, the musicians are dirtbags, and so are the promoters, the producers, the venue owners, the roadies. Everyone.”

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