Page 75 of Reverb

“Then ‘Exile,’” I said. “The crowds love that one.”

Denver nodded, and we kept the list going. We’d released our latest album, West of Exile, two months ago, and it was the best-selling album we’d ever released. It hadn’t hit the charts—we weren’t that kind of band—but it sold and streamed more each week than it had the week before. We’d done a sold-out two-week tour in the east, flown home for a break, then played a two-week tour of the west. After another break, we’d play the south, then the midwest.

We’d created and released the album on our own terms, and this was the schedule we wanted, which was the most important thing—to us, anyway. We were all hitting thirty-eight this year, and no one was interested in spending months away from home. Because apparently, we’d finally all gotten lives.

Denver and Callie had bought a house together—one that had a room big enough for Callie’s piano. They’d moved in together last month. Callie had played keys on the album, and she was here tonight, though she wouldn’t be playing with us onstage. She said she had no desire to play in front of six thousand people.

Callie had quit giving piano lessons, and she’d spent two weeks in the Road Kings’ new studio—we called it RKS, one of our less creative moments—recording her own solo piano music. Her recording was making good money on the streaming platforms, because apparently people liked listening to piano while they were studying or gardening or reading. Leave it to Callie to quietly kick ass in the most introverted way, doing something she loved and was wildly good at. That was Callie through and through.

Brit was here tonight. After the show, she and Axel were going to the airport to catch a flight to Amsterdam. They were going on three weeks’ vacation in Europe, visiting Axel’s grandparents in the Netherlands, then traveling around.

Neal was going to the airport right after the show, too, but he was going home to Portland. Raine was at home, six months pregnant with their son, and he was away from her as little as possible. He was planning to take a hiatus from the band after the baby was born. We were looking for a fill-in bassist.

His daughter Amber was here tonight, hanging out with Brit and Callie. At fourteen, Amber was our social media strategist, because she was the only one of us that understood it. Since school was out, she’d come to some of the West Coast shows, taken pictures and videos, then done something with hashtags and algorithms that I did not comprehend. Apparently, it was working.

And me? I was busy. As soon as RKS was finished, it had practically become my second home. I’d overseen the production of the new album, and now we were starting to work with other musicians who wanted to record and produce at RKS. Anyone who wanted to work with us had to come through me.

When I wasn’t recording, touring, or working at RKS, I was with my girlfriend, who was the best fucking writer in the business. Sienna’s pieces in Soundcheck had won her a journalism award, and she was in demand. She was still working regularly for Soundcheck, and now she was writing regularly for Rolling Stone. She was getting a reputation as a skilled interviewer, one musicians could trust, and because she knew so much about all types of music, she’d interviewed every kind of musician from classical to punk.

She traveled a lot. I traveled a lot. I didn’t like it, but there was no other way to do it. After tonight, we’d both be home for two straight weeks. I planned to make the most of it.

We finished the set list with fifteen minutes to go. I took a picture of Denver’s scribbled list with my phone, then texted it to the lighting and sound techs who needed to see it. Axel took a picture so he’d know what the hell to play behind his drum kit. We were flying by the seat of our pants, but what else was new?

Everything zoomed out, and I felt my brain going into the zone. Then we went onstage and gave it everything we had.

* * *

There was a gathering backstage after the show. You could call it a party, if a group of people hanging out without any drugs or alcohol was a party. It was a bit sentimental. Now that this part of the tour was over and we were going our separate ways for a few weeks, we all wanted to linger for a little while.

I sat on one of the sofas with a soda in my hand and watched everyone. Neal and Amber. Axel and Brit. Denver and Callie.

The sofa dipped next to me as Angie sat down, which was a surprise. I hadn’t thought she’d make it.

Since Angie was our manager, she and I talked frequently. She wrote up the deals for our studio rentals and for the bands we worked with. She oversaw everything with an eagle eye, from the T-shirt sales to which sandwiches were delivered backstage. Tonight she was wearing jeans—designer, of course—and an oversized tee that was tucked in artfully and had likely cost over a hundred dollars. Her hair was down. This was Angie’s version of a distressed rock n’ roll outfit.

“You look exhausted,” I said to her.

“You always know just what to say,” she retorted.

I shrugged. “Someone’s gotta tell you the truth.”

She looked away. She really did look tired—I wasn’t lying. Tired and stressed. “Since everyone is taking a break, I’ve decided to take one, too,” she said.

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “Axel’s family owns a beach house just north of here.”

“Yeah, I know. I hear it’s nice.”

“I hope so,” she said. “I’m going to spend the next few weeks there. I’m leaving tonight. I’m hoping to—I don’t know, to get some perspective, maybe. If I don’t get that, I’ll just stare at the ocean for a while. It can’t be all bad.”

“It won’t be bad at all. Probably.”

She gave me a small smile at that. “Where’s Sienna tonight?”

“She’s coming. She had to do something. We have plans.”

“Always so mysterious, Stone.”

---