Page 14 of Reverb

“One of the roadies brought me coffee yesterday.”

“He was trying to fuck you, or he was trying to sell you drugs. Probably both.”

“That’s not true.” Okay, maybe it was a little true. The roadie who had brought me coffee had given me a slightly creepy vibe. Still, roadies were one of my best sources, so I’d been polite and we’d talked for a while.

“You’re too trusting,” Stone said. “You need to assume that everyone in this business is a piece of shit.”

“Is that really how you see the world?” I asked. “That’s sad. I know there are some dirty people in the music business. But I have to make friends, get people to trust me, cultivate sources. I can’t just treat everyone like I hate them. I’d never get anything written. Besides, you’re telling me not to trust anyone—especially musicians—when you’re the one who invited me to stay in your room.”

He grunted. “Well, you probably shouldn’t have trusted me. You’re just lucky I’m nice.” I laughed, and he paused, surprised. “What did I say?”

“Stone, I haven’t talked to everyone you know yet. But of the people I’ve talked to, I don’t think any of them would describe you as nice.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Stone said, “Of course you’re missing the point. You specialize in it.”

What the hell did that mean? “You know, you forget that I’m in an excellent position to cross the room and smother you with a pillow in your sleep. It doesn’t matter that everyone sucks up to you as a rock god. I think there’d be a lineup of people to thank me.”

“Try me, Maplethorpe.”

I was stunned into silence. Because those three words, growled into the darkness, had unexpectedly sent a shiver down my spine. My skin grew warm and I could feel my pulse in my throat. I fought the urge to shift restlessly under the sheets. Even though he was across the room, Stone Zeeland suddenly seemed far, far too close to me.

“I’m going to sleep,” I managed after a minute, when I thought I could make my voice sound normal.

Stone didn’t answer. He had rolled over and turned his back to me. He was probably out cold and had completely forgotten I was in the room.

I sighed, got comfortable, and closed my eyes.

SIX

NOW

Stone

I parked my car on the street near the foot of my mother’s driveway. My boots squelched on damp leaves when I got out, and I could see that fall had brought a dump of leaves onto the lawn, growing wet in the drizzle. The eaves would need checking out, too.

My mother said that when she married my piece-of-shit father, she only got two things: this house and me. She was twenty-one the year they got married, then divorced.

She got the house with no mortgage on it—my father told her his family came from money, though she didn’t know whether he was lying. In any case, the house was the one constant in the years that followed for both my mother and me. There were three marriages after my father, as well as an endless string of boyfriends in between. Mom worked as a checkout clerk in a supermarket, eventually working her way up to manager. I got my first job at thirteen, cleaning toilets for cash under the table. The fact that we had a roof over our heads, debt free, was what kept us from starving.

I had enough money now to pay the bills, but Mom still managed the grocery store. She said she didn’t know what she’d do with herself if she wasn’t working.

There had been some bad times here. Mom and I didn’t always get along. And I’d come back here after my time in L.A. at eighteen. It was the darkest time in my life, but at least I’d had somewhere to go.

Mom opened the front door and waited for me on the porch as I came up the walk. She tossed the butt of her cigarette into the damp soil of the garden.

“You’re supposed to quit,” I grumbled at her.

“I will,” she said. “Starting now.”

Neither of us believed it. She grinned at me.

I came up on the step. I towered over her, but she patted my bearded cheeks with her palms like I was a little kid. “Stoney.”

“Diana.”

“Oof, don’t call me that. It reminds me that you’re not a little boy anymore. It makes me sound like an old lady.” She was fifty-eight.

“It’s your name, ain’t it?” I brushed past her into the house.

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