Page 20 of Reverb

It was late when Stone and I got back to the room. I felt like I’d spent a few hours in a sauna fully clothed. Outside, the rain pounded down. While Stone showered, I peeled my damp clothes off and put on my sleep tee and shorts. I pulled the covers over me as he came out of the bathroom.

“What were you and Neal fighting about?” I asked.

“Nothing much,” Stone grumbled. He didn’t notice how surprised I was that he actually answered the question. “I wanted to change the setlist when I saw what the crowd was like. Win them over earlier. Denver said no, and Neal sided with him. They were both wrong.”

He said this matter-of-factly as he threw back the covers on his bed. He didn’t get in, though. He walked to the hotel minibar and grabbed a small bottle from it. “Want one?” he asked.

“Stone, I’m so tired that if I drink alcohol, I’ll pass out in a few minutes.”

He gave me an incredulous look. “How old are you? Eighty?”

“Twenty-eight, and not a rock star, apparently.”

“Apparently.” He twisted the cap off the bottle—it was a mini bottle of white wine—and downed the contents in a few gulps. “I’m stopping at one,” he said, putting the empty bottle down. “I don’t need you writing about what a drunk I am.”

“Readers are salivating to know that Stone Zeeland drank an ounce of terrible hotel wine,” I said sarcastically. “It’s breaking news. I’ll call my editor immediately.”

“Sarcasm isn’t sexy,” Stone said.

“I’m not trying to be sexy,” I shot back.

“Well, you’re succeeding.”

“How did you even get one groupie?” I asked. “You’d think even the drunkest, dumbest girl would be turned off by your personality.”

“You’d be wrong. But I don’t do groupies anymore. Or haven’t you noticed? You’re not very observant for a journalist.”

“I’m plenty observant, and what I’ve observed is that you’re a woman repellant. I haven’t seen even one woman make a pass at you on this tour. Have you ever thought that maybe it isn’t them, it’s you?”

“Oh, it’s me,” Stone agreed. He sat on the bed, making it emit the familiar groan. “It’s definitely me. You know the difference between you and me, Maplethorpe? I could get a woman if I wanted. But I think you couldn’t get a man to save your life.”

I sat up in bed, keeping the covers at my neck. “I’ll have you know, men find me very attractive. I’m just focused on my career right now.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Stone said as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’re good-looking. That part’s fine.”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to this right now.”

“Relax. I’m not trying to fuck you, and you know it. I’m trying to make a point here.”

“Please don’t.”

Again, he spoke as if I was on mute. Apparently he was talkative tonight. “You need to loosen up,” he said, his eyes lighting on me. He looked me over, though he couldn’t see much, since I was under the covers. “You’re so goddamned serious.”

“I’m serious?” Was he actually saying this? “You’re walking depression. I don’t think you even smiled as a baby.”

“I didn’t.” He kept looking me over, and I couldn’t read his expression. He didn’t look turned on. He couldn’t be, looking at what was basically a pile of blankets with my head sticking out. “But see, when I’m in the mood for it, I like to fuck. Just like I like to play guitar. I can let go when the situation calls for it. It’s how I survive. You?” He gestured to the lump on the bed that was me. “You’re wound too tight.”

“I’m wound just fine, thanks. And I can let go.” There was disbelieving silence, and for some reason, I felt the need to fill it. “It’s been a little while since I had a boyfriend, I admit. I’ve been busy. But my last boyfriend studied music theory at Juilliard. He was smart and eloquent. And yes, we had sex. He was very proficient.”

Stone laughed. I stared at him in shock. Not only was I amazed that he was laughing—I’d never seen it, never even imagined it—but I was amazed at the sound, the low rumble of it, the lazy way it came from deep in his chest. His laugh was like rocks tumbling down a hill, and even from across the room, I felt it down to the bottoms of my feet.

Proficient. Had I actually said that? Sex with Stone wouldn’t be proficient. It would be wild and uninhibited in some way I couldn’t imagine, and suddenly I recalled the way he’d sink into a solo when he was onstage, his legs braced, his eyes drifting closed, his head sometimes tilting back as he let go. Was that what it was like? My body flushed hot and I squeezed my knees together under the covers, my thighs tensing. I was glad he couldn’t see it. I wished for yet another blanket.

“Fine, Maplethorpe,” Stone said, switching out his bedside lamp and swinging his legs into the bed. “Keep your skinny, brainy boys who don’t know how to fuck and make music in theory.” The bed groaned as his big body got comfortable. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

I stared into the darkness, trying to think of a rapier-sharp comeback, but I was distracted by a thump through the wall from the next room. Then another.

There was a pause through the wall. Then a giggle, a man’s low laugh. Then more thumps.

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