Page 46 of Reverb

SEVENTEEN

Sienna

The Soundcheck offices were in one of the business buildings downtown. Coffee in hand, I brushed shoulders with banker and lawyer types on their way to work.

I was dressed in the most business-formal outfit I owned: long skirt in dark brown animal print, black sweater, silver necklace and earrings, Docs. I’d done my makeup. I’d showered at Stone’s, but I hadn’t brought a blow dryer, and of course he didn’t own one. I’d had to be satisfied with working my product through my hair and letting it air dry in its natural waves. It would have to do.

Still, I thought I looked pretty good when I checked in the mirror in the elevator. I looked smart with an edge of hip. Professional. I did not look like a woman who had just spent the night getting her mind blown in Stone Zeeland’s bed.

I took a deep breath and met my own eyes in the mirror. I wasn’t going to think about that right now.

I was a writer, a real one. I was going to nail this meeting.

I left the elevator and walked down the hall, past an accounting firm and a logistics company. Soundcheck didn’t have a large space—the state of magazine publishing dictated that most of the employees either worked outside of the office or only came through once in a while. There was a front desk with a young woman behind it, and behind her was an open office space with workstations for whoever was coming by that day. Around the edges of the open space were the closed-door offices for the editor, the sales manager, and a few of the other staff.

Davis Dean, the editor-in-chief, welcomed me into his office. He was in his early thirties, with a streak of blond in his dark hair and a small silver earring in one ear. His smile was white against his light-brown skin. “Thanks for coming by,” he said. “It’s great to see you.”

“You, too,” I said politely, sitting on the chair opposite his desk. I sipped my coffee.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what this meeting is about.” Davis circled his desk and sat down. “I’ll get right to it. I wanted to clear the air about what happened on the Road Kings tour.”

I took another sip of my drink. I wasn’t going to wade into that. He would have to go first.

Davis shook his head. “I’m really sorry that you got stranded on the road. Things got complicated. It was very dicey all around. The tour had a backer who approved of you at first, then decided they wanted you gone.”

“I know who William Hale is,” I said dryly.

Davis spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I’m not going to confirm or deny anything, since we signed a confidentiality thing. But we were between a rock and a hard place. We wanted to keep the backer happy, but we also wanted the pieces you were turning in. Because those pieces brought traffic, and the traffic brings subscribers and advertisers.”

I sighed inwardly. I wasn’t particularly angry at Soundcheck. Every music publication still in existence was struggling on the verge of disappearing. Soundcheck was one of the good ones, independently owned and determined to publish quality pieces about great musicians. They didn’t publish cheesy gossip about the biggest pop stars—the magazine wanted to have its ear to the ground. Cutting a deal with Will Hale would mean a lot of money to them, and I knew they wouldn’t want to go against his wishes, or worse, get into a legal battle.

“I worked it out,” I said.

“Yeah, you did.” Davis smiled again. He was good-looking, and I vaguely realized that a few months ago, I would have classified him as my type. Now, I was sure that I had never known what my type even was, because apparently my type was Stone.

“You did an amazing job,” Davis was saying as my brain tried to wander back to last night. “It was great to have our writer right there, with the Road Kings, as their popularity took off in the middle of the tour. The pieces you sent us were really good, and the traffic has been better than any of us could have asked for. Fans are really getting turned on to the Road Kings, and so far, the band isn’t cooperating with any other publication. Only us.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Did you get the rough draft I sent you last night?”

“I did, and I’m excited about it,” he replied. I’d sent him around fifteen hundred words of my profile of Denver Gilchrist, based on the two interviews I’d done with him so far and the interview with Callie. I still had one more interview with Denver to do, and the article would need revising and polishing, but I had wanted Davis to see where it was headed. “I’ll get some notes back to you tomorrow—I don’t have many. But these articles are going to be great. Are you having problems getting access to the other guys in the band?”

“No,” I said, trying to sound normal. “They’re cooperating.”

“I heard that Stone Zeeland has been causing a problem.”

“He has, um, come around.” I cleared my throat. “Changed his mind.”

“Yeah?” Davis leaned forward. “Man, I’ve been listening to the Sidewinder album on repeat. He’s a genius, but I hear he’s difficult. Kind of an asshole.”

I blinked, surprised at how immediately offended I was. I didn’t like anyone calling Stone an asshole, even though I’d called him that—in my mind and to his face—plenty of times.

Stone was a lot of things, I knew now. Yes, sometimes he was a bit of an asshole. He was damaged. He was an overthinker. He was loyal to his friends. He was witty over text. He loved music. He was surprisingly gentle for such a big man. Sleeping with him was like sleeping with a bear that had the body temperature of a small furnace, and I’d really liked it. And when it came to the female body, he knew things. Deep, dark, secret, powerful things. Things no man should be capable of knowing.

I was not going to put that in the article.

Davis was looking at me, expecting a response, so I said, “He isn’t really an asshole. He’s just quiet. He doesn’t talk much. I think he’s kind of shy, actually.”

“Shy?” Davis laughed. “Sure, if you say so. Guitarists are notorious for being self-centered egomaniacs.”

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