Page 59 of Reverb

“You’re laughing at me, Maplethorpe,” he said.

“I’m greeting you warmly,” I argued back. I fought the urge to touch him. “It’s what people do in social situations.”

He clasped my chin briefly with his finger and thumb, looking into my face, then dropped his hand. “No. That’s laughter.”

“My parents can be a bit much.” I tried not to give away that the touch of his fingers made me a little dizzy, as did the clean smell of him so close to me. “You dressed up,” I commented.

His gaze dropped briefly to his clothes. “You like the suburban dad look?”

I felt my eyes go wide. “Are you trying to look like a suburban dad?”

“I am trying,” Stone said, “not to look like an asshole. Am I succeeding?”

“You do not look like an asshole,” I replied. “And if you actually were a suburban dad, every woman in the neighborhood would ovulate.”

“That sounds medically unsound. I guess I’ll stay out of the suburbs.” He turned away, following my parents into the kitchen. I let my gaze linger on his ass as he went.

I still wasn’t sure what exactly we were doing. We were both busy. Stone was putting in long days and nights in the rehearsal studio, nailing down the album, as well as working on the Road Kings’ other projects. I was writing my pieces for Soundcheck and building my portfolio for future work. I’d also used my newly stable funds to go apartment hunting, and I’d finally found a place I wanted to rent. I moved in next week.

I’d brought him apartment hunting with me when he was free. He came with me to the gigs I wrote about around town, always coming up with some interesting insight into the music. He spent a lot of late nights rehearsing, but when he wasn’t working, I’d pack an overnight bag and go to his apartment.

I was getting used to that big body of his, so much so that I was starting to crave it. I’d never thought of myself as a sexual person, but apparently sleeping with Stone Zeeland on a regular basis could drive any woman out of her mind. At any given moment when I was around him, I had the urge to run my hand over one of his biceps or squeeze his thigh. The rumble of his voice made my blood heat. I liked the scent of him and the feel of his arms around me when he squeezed me, and the sex…my god. That man knew how to do things. It was hard not to think about when he was around. The version of me who had huddled under layers of covers in her hotel bed to hide from him? I didn’t know her anymore.

And now he was having dinner with my parents, kind of like a real boyfriend. I tried to feel weird about it. But as I watched Stone with my parents, I couldn’t pull it off.

They shouldn’t have gotten along. My parents had lived the quietest possible life, and Stone was a rock star. They were teachers, and Stone—I knew now—had dropped out of high school and taken the GED in his late twenties. They were two of the most talkative people I knew, and Stone was…not. Stone was sleeping with their daughter—regularly, enthusiastically, and extremely competently. But as we sat down to dinner, none of that seemed to matter.

Instead of interrogating Stone, my parents did most of the talking. They told teaching anecdotes and gave Stone gossip about the people in the neighborhood. They let him talk when he wanted, but didn’t force him, and they didn’t put him under a conversational spotlight. It was exactly the right way to treat him, because Stone visibly relaxed. By dessert, he’d told a few stories from his own crazy life that were slightly raucous and bitingly funny. I loved it when Stone told stories. He had no idea how good at it he was, how many of the stories in his head were funny and fascinating and weird. I could listen to him talk for hours, but if I told him that, he’d never believe me.

After dinner, as I’d predicted, Dad roped Stone into listening to records. They climbed the stairs to the attic as Mom and I put dishes in the dishwasher. “Well?” I asked her when I couldn’t take the suspense anymore.

“I like him,” Mom said, hanging up her dish towel.

I waited. “That’s it?”

She smirked. “That’s it.”

I went upstairs and stood at the bottom of the attic stairs. I could hear Dad up there, talking Stone’s ear off. “Dad!” I called up to them. “Enough! Let Stone go.”

“Ten more minutes!” Dad shouted back, like a kid who has to stop using his iPad.

I sighed and wandered into my bedroom. I’d packed most of my things, except for the necessities I’d use before moving out next week. I’d moved out of here before—for college, for my internship—but this time felt different, as if I was finally an actual grownup.

After a few minutes, I heard Stone enter the bedroom behind me and close the door. I turned to face him. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I warned you.”

He nodded. He looked huge in my small bedroom. “Yeah. It’s fine. Your dad knows his music.” He looked around at my twin bed, my white painted dresser. “This is where you grew up, Maplethorpe?”

He’d been in my house before, but never here in my bedroom. “This is my origin story,” I replied, motioning around the room.

Stone scratched his beard and looked thoughtful. Had I thought the sound of him scratching his beard was annoying? Now I thought it was hot. “Seems about right for a nerd,” he commented.

I put my hands on my hips. “You have no idea how much action this room has seen, Zeeland.”

That amused him. “Imaginary action,” he said smugly. “The boy band guys in your head aren’t actually real, Maplethorpe.”

“I am deeply offended that you think I loved boy bands growing up. I’ll have you know that my Justin Timberlake obsession was very short-lived. And the Zac Efron poster I owned was taken down two whole years ago.”

“Yeah,” Stone said. “I bet the guys you brought in here liked looking at that while they got all the way to first base.”

---