Page 3 of Reverb

Stone waited, staring at me.

“Well?” he said.

“I’ll go in after you leave.”

“No, you won’t. Go now.”

“What is your problem?” My voice rose, and I remembered to modulate it. It wouldn’t do to come across as hysterical, now, would it? That would just play into his sexist prejudices. “I’m minding my own business. Since you detest my existence, I suggest you leave me alone and mind yours.”

“This is stupid,” Stone said, once again as if I’d started this. It was getting harder not to scream. “Just tell me the truth. You don’t have a room, do you?”

“Of course I have a room,” I lied again.

“Right.” Stone pointed to the hotel. “If I go in there right now, go to the front desk, and ask them if you have a room booked, they’re going to say yes.”

“I hope they don’t tell you anything, because that would violate my privacy.”

“Be honest.” He sounded mad now, and he leaned toward me. It was only an inch, but it was enough. He enunciated clearly. “You. Don’t. Have. A. Room.” I was going to argue again, but he didn’t give me the chance. “I can tell by the look on your face that I’m right. So where are you going to stay, Penny Lane?”

For a second I just stared at him in shock. Had he called me Penny Lane, the groupie character in Almost Famous? It was like he already knew what my favorite movie was. “I’m not Penny Lane!” I shouted at him, not caring if he saw how livid I was. “My name is Sienna Maplethorpe. Maplethorpe. If you want to talk Almost Famous, then I’m William, who is based on Cameron Crowe, who wrote the movie! The journalist! I’m not a groupie, you ass!”

“Jesus, just answer the question,” Stone said. “If you don’t have a room, where are you going to stay tonight?”

“I have somewhere to go.”

“You don’t, or you’d be there by now.” He pointed at the hotel again. “You went in there, you went to the front desk, and they told you there’s no room booked for you. Then you came out here, got in this car, and scrolled on your phone for half an hour. You’re still here, which tells me you have nowhere to stay.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“I’m waiting.”

“I can’t think with you staring at me like that.”

His eyebrows rose. “Really? You’re supposed to be so smart, and you have a hard time thinking? I thought thinking is what you do for a living.”

I made a scoffing noise. “Like guitar players are such experts on thinking.”

What was I doing? Stone Zeeland wasn’t just a guitar player. He was a rock star. Rolling Stone had called him “one of the unsung heroes of the rock scene, carrying the mantle of Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck while pushing their legacy kicking and screaming into the next century.” Heady praise, if you didn’t look too closely into Jimmy Page’s personal life.

Stone could make or break my career, and he was sitting here in my car. While I insulted him.

He shrugged his big shoulders, letting my insult roll off his no doubt gigantic ego. It must be nice in there, where no form of criticism or self-reflection could penetrate. “You think,” he commanded me. “I’m gonna sit here and wait.”

Silence again.

I looked around. Night was falling fast, like a blanket. I wasn’t the type to jump at shadows, but there was something cold and unpleasant about sitting in this parking lot in a strange city while the light died. I’d have to find a hostel with a bunk in a room full of strangers. Or try to sleep in this parking lot, find a gas station that would let me use their dirty bathroom. I tried not to feel despair. At least no one would mug me with Stone’s giant, silent bulk sitting here.

“All right,” I grudgingly admitted when the silence had drawn on for what seemed like a year. “I’m a little stuck. My room seems to have been cancelled. Even if I had the money, everywhere else is sold out. Okay? Since you have all the answers, what do you suggest I do?”

Stone made a hmm sound deep in his throat and looked out the passenger window. He scratched his beard with his big hand. It was like sharing a car with a bear. I couldn’t see his eyes, so I couldn’t figure out what was going on in his stupid head. Was he going to suggest something? Or was he just going to sit here all night in silence?

Nothing. No sign. This man had less than zero social skills.

“Well?” I asked when I couldn’t take it anymore.

He spoke abruptly, still not looking at me, his voice rough. “Stay in my room.”

What? Had he actually said that? I couldn’t even speak. Instead, I made a strangled noise of outrage.

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