Page 8 of Reverb

I glared at him. He was starting to annoy me. “What are you asking? Are you asking what my job is?”

He rolled his eyes, and I wanted to punch him. “I’m asking what exactly you were doing. The question is pretty clear.”

Oh, he made me mad. I yanked my pajamas out of the suitcase. “You’d like a forensic accounting of where I’ve been? Fine. I talked to a paramedic, two of the venue’s security guards, and two cops. I got the names and ages of the guys who cut the power—two drunk fans who apparently thought it would be a funny prank. They were put in custody in jail overnight, though they’ll likely be released tomorrow. I went to the jail to try and talk to them but got stonewalled. It turns out that I need better police contacts, which was something I didn’t know I needed for a music journalism career.”

Stone blinked. “You went to a New Orleans jail at two o’clock in the morning?”

“Yes, and it was delightful,” I replied sarcastically. “I also got one of the security guards to show me how the guys got into the power room as well as show me the security footage. It seems that one of the doors malfunctions and doesn’t close all the way sometimes. The venue had a work order in to get it fixed, but it hadn’t been filled yet. I plan to find the status of the work order in the morning. The tour with the security guard was also delightful, since he wanted me to come ‘party with him and his roommates’ afterward. I have no idea what that meant and did not ask. My only dinner came from a hot dog vendor. Tomorrow I’ll write the story and turn it in. I have everything I need, unless you’d like to make a statement?”

Stone looked, again, like I’d said something that had never occurred to him. I wondered what it was. Had it never occurred to him that I did an actual job? That I was a sentient being and not a pebble he was trying to dislodge from his shoe?

Whatever it was, I had no patience for it. Also, he was standing there staring at me, and I needed to change my clothes. When the silence stretched on too long, I left my words hanging there, turned, and walked into the bathroom.

When I came out, Stone was no longer standing there. The balcony door was open, letting the night air in. I could see his large silhouette sitting on a chair outside.

I should have gone to bed and tried to sleep through this weird arrangement of ours, but it didn’t even cross my mind. Instead, I walked onto the balcony, pulled up the second chair, and sat. We were eight floors up, and the lights of New Orleans were laid out beneath us. The city was still awake this late, though it was starting to wind down. Cabs cruised the street below, and on the corner, someone shouted while another person laughed.

Stone was like a monument, sitting with one ankle crossed over the other knee. He took up half the balcony in that pose. He was still wearing the black jeans and black tee he’d worn onstage, and I was a little self-conscious about my pajama pants, tee, and sweatshirt, even though I was fully covered. He was looking straight ahead, but he glanced at me.

“Beer or wine?” he asked.

“What?”

He spoke more slowly. “Beer. Or. Wine.”

“Beer.”

He reached next to him, grabbed a bottle of beer, twisted the cap off, and handed it to me.

I took it. After the night I’d had, it was welcome. I noticed he didn’t have a drink for himself, though. Had he brought both beer and wine onto the balcony so he could offer me one or the other?

I took a swig of my beer. “You’re not drinking,” I pointed out. “None of the band is drinking on this tour. No pot, nothing.” I’d talked to roadies, hotel workers, drivers, venue staff, and other people working the tour. They’d all said the same thing. Also, I’d spent four days on the tour bus with the band, a contractual obligation during which they’d frozen me out. They hadn’t touched any substance stronger than coffee.

Stone shrugged.

“Care to tell me why?” I’d heard rumors that Axel de Vries had been through rehab, but no one could confirm that. Even if he had, it was pretty extraordinary for the whole band to agree to ten weeks without a single drink—even when they were alone in their hotel rooms, like now.

Stone gave me a look that said he knew I was fishing. “We’re too old for that shit.”

“Stone, you’re thirty-seven.”

He looked pained. “Thanks for reminding me.” He shook his head. “Since you’ve barely graduated high school, I’m going to assume you’ve never covered a tour.”

I took a swig of my beer. “I’m almost thirty. But you assume correctly.”

“Then you don’t know what it’s like, but you’ll learn.”

He realized, after a second, what he’d said. If I got fired—or if I quit—I wouldn’t make it to the end of this tour. I’d go home with my tail between my legs instead. For a second, Stone’s gaze met mine, and instead of his annoyed scowl, I saw his emotions as if through clear glass.

He hadn’t meant to say that. He also wasn’t the one behind my missing hotel booking. Whatever was going on with this job—however he felt about me being on this tour—he wasn’t the one causing this problem. If he were, he wouldn’t have let me stay in his room.

“What will I learn?” I asked. “Since I’m staying on the tour.”

He gave me another look, this one harder to read, then he looked away. “It’s tiring. It seems great at first, like you can go forever, but it takes everything out of you by the end. You think you need to be either fucked up or hungover all the time, but that makes it worse.”

“But that’s what you used to do.”

“When I was younger than you, even, yeah.” He gave me a side glance. “Too stupid to know better. We all did it. But this tour isn’t about partying. This tour is about playing.”

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