Page 23 of Reverb

“So,” Angie continued, “strangely, I like your company, as rude as it sometimes is. Even the rudeness is a little refreshing. But I’ll also admit that you’re sexy, Stone. And I haven’t kissed anyone but my husband since I was twenty years old. It’s getting a little pathetic.”

I smiled at her. “Baby, it’s only been a year. Give it some time. You’ll find a guy to do it proper, who’ll be happy to give you whatever you need as often as you want it. A guy with his head in the game. That guy ain’t me.”

Angie tilted her head, assessing me. She’d recovered from her shock, and she didn’t seem very disappointed by my rejection, which only told me I was right. “That’s the real reason, isn’t it?” she said. “Your head isn’t in the game. There’s someone else.”

The rush of feeling was so intense that I couldn’t speak. My chest squeezed. My throat closed. I felt the urge to get up and walk out of there. To get drunk. To do any number of stupid things. Anything that would just make it stop.

I could tell Angie that I’d spent weeks sleeping a few feet from a woman who made me certifiably insane. I’d watched her get pushed down, disrespected—not least by me and my band—and left behind. I’d watched her keep going, and I’d watched her fight—for the career she wanted, for the life she was determined to earn. I’d watched her believe in herself. I’d spent my days worrying about her, my nights after every show wondering if she was okay. I’d kept tabs on her, offered her my room because I couldn’t quite leave her the fuck alone.

I’d looked at her and seen every mistake I’d ever made, every wasted night with a woman, every hard blow I’d taken that had knocked the life out of me, and I’d regretted all of it. I’d seen someone who was a thousand times better than me. Someone I didn’t deserve. Someone who never looked twice at me, someone who would find a nice guy someday and settle down, and she would deserve it, and every second she was with him would kill me, and she had no fucking idea.

I didn’t say any of that, but I owed Angie honesty. “Yeah,” I choked out. “There’s someone.”

That seemed, for some reason, to make her feel better. “Well, then. Let’s have dinner.” She motioned, and a waiter appeared from the shadows. We ordered—I instantly had no memory of what I’d told them I wanted—and Angie signaled for a refill of our wine. Then she turned to me again. “We may as well talk business,” she said. “The Soundcheck deal. Since you’ve dealt a blow to my self-esteem tonight, you owe me, Stone. I’m giving you an assignment.”

I stared at her. I had a bad feeling about this.

Angie made no comment on my silence. “You’re going to call Sienna Maplethorpe,” she said, unaware that that name sent panic down my spine, “and you’re going to talk to her.”

“Angie,” I managed. “I don’t—”

“No excuses,” she insisted. “The deal is that each of you gives Sienna at least three interviews. It’s unprecedented for the Road Kings. In hindsight, it was a canny move for all of you to avoid the press for so long. There’s an air of mystery about you, and you aren’t overexposed. The tour was a huge success, and there’s a new audience finding you, ready to devour whatever comes next.” She smiled, in control now, and sipped her wine. “The new album is going to be amazing, and your new fans will be waiting. The icing on the cake will be the first-ever in-depth profiles of all four of you, written by the journalist who was there for every day of the tour. She’s getting access to some of the recording sessions when they start. She’s getting access to everything. It’s a done deal.”

I leaned back, running a hand over my face. I desperately wanted a cigarette.

“I get it,” Angie said, as if she understood anything at all about how I was feeling. “You hate the press. You’ve made that clear. But Sienna is an incredibly talented writer, and she’s proven time and time again that she’s sensitive to what the real story is. She isn’t a sensationalist looking for dirt. She’s got the makings of a great music journalist, and your bandmates agree with me. Each of them has already started their interviews.”

“Fuck,” I said. I drained my glass.

“Tomorrow, Stone.” Angie tapped one flawlessly manicured nail on the table. “Tomorrow, you are going to call Sienna, and you’re going to set up a day and time with her. Then you’re going to go talk to her. And you are going to tell her everything.”

I opened my mouth to argue, to tell her off, and then something just clicked. Deep in the base of my brain, deep in my chest.

Maplethorpe.

Her gray eyes, her smart mouth, her sweet body that she didn’t bother to show off. The way her brows drew down when she was mad. The way she lit up from within when she listened to good music. The way she burrowed under the covers every night, then couldn’t stop herself from staring at me as I walked past her bed. The way she’d never caught on that I’d had to go out and buy clothes to wear to bed when we checked into our room the first time, because I was embarrassed by the boxer shorts I usually slept in.

It had taken her until today to figure out that I hadn’t just happened upon her in the parking lot in New Orleans. That I’d already been watching her by then. For longer than I cared to admit.

Jesus, Maplethorpe.

Fuck, I missed her.

She had no clue.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time that I gave her one.

“You’re right,” I said to Angie. “I should tell her everything.”

“Really?” Angie smiled. “I’m glad we agree. Or are you just telling me what I want to hear so I’ll leave you alone?”

“No.” That tactic was one I wasn’t above using, but not this time. “I’ll actually do it. I’ll talk to Sienna Maplethorpe. I’ll tell her anything she asks me, anything she wants to know. Even the bad stuff.”

She looked thoughtful. “Well. I don’t want to give advice, but maybe leave the bucket story out. Okay?”

I smiled at her. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll find plenty of other things to say.”

NINE

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