Page 47 of Reverb

“The Road Kings are different. I think I made that pretty clear in the pieces I wrote from the tour. They weren’t partying with groupies or trashing hotel rooms. If they had, I would have written about it. It was an entirely different scene.”

“And people love it,” Davis agreed. “I think the days of giving a bunch of white guys a pass just for being able to play an instrument might be over. No one has much of an appetite to hear about entitled dudes groping teenagers and acting like drunk toddlers. It isn’t the eighties anymore. That shit has lost its charm.” He folded his hands on the desk, warming to his topic. “That’s why I think we’re on to something here. There’s been such a big response to the Road Kings, and I think it’s because they’re actually authentic. We live in a world where too many of our heroes have turned out to be toxic, pathetic, fake assholes. The Road Kings really seem like the real thing. A band to believe in, you could say.”

I blinked. “Well, they’re not heroes,” I hedged. “They don’t grope teenagers, but they’re just normal guys.” They were moody, unpredictable, and they hated being told what to do. I’d heard that Axel had gone streaking on the last tour, buck naked, though unfortunately I hadn’t witnessed it. Also, if anyone called them “a band to believe in” with a straight face, they’d probably laugh. Or puke. Maybe both.

“I’m not asking you to lionize them.” Davis waved a hand. “Not at all. That would make for bland reporting. I want to read about their flaws and their screwups. I want to know how they see the world. I want their life stories. I want that authenticity.”

I nodded. That was what I’d been going for, anyway. “I can do that.”

“Good. We’re going to run four profiles, one of each band member. We’ll release them two weeks apart so readers keep coming back. I also want an in-depth look at their recording process. Their agent has agreed to get you access.” When I nodded again, he said, “I’ve got a photographer lined up for you—I’ll give you her contact info. Which leads me to the next thing.”

“The next thing?” I asked.

“The Road Kings aren’t the only authentic band in America,” Davis said. “They aren’t even the only authentic band in Portland. I want you to find who’s good, who’s up and coming, who’s on the verge of breaking out. I want you to find who’s doing something fresh and different. Start local, but if you need to travel somewhere, pitch it to us and we’ll try to find the money. And then I want you and Zena—that’s the photographer—to go find them, talk to them, listen to them, watch them play, take shots of them, and send us the next big thing.”

There was a moment of quiet as I stared at him, realizing that my dream assignment was landing in my lap. It was actually happening.

“That sounds good,” I managed.

“I’m glad you like it.” He grinned.

My thoughts spun. I wasn’t a salaried employee of the magazine, only freelance. “We’ll have to talk rates,” I added.

Davis nodded. “We’ll talk rates, don’t worry about that.”

“Okay. But if all of that works out, then I accept.”

“Good to hear.” His voice was further away than a moment ago, as if I’d receded partway into a tunnel of my shock. “I can assure you, you’ll never be stranded on the road again. Oh, and before I forget.” He opened a desk drawer and took out an envelope. “Our backer—whose name I do not confirm or deny—told us that what happened with the Road Kings was a misunderstanding. Since you had to pay your own way for the second half of the tour, they have issued you a payment for the amount they estimate you must have spent.” He slid the envelope across the desk to me. “Please tally up your receipts and if you’re owed more than this, let us know. I’m sure we can get it for you.”

I took the envelope and risked a glimpse inside. The number on the check was much, much larger than what I’d spent, considering I’d roomed with Stone and hadn’t paid for my hotel.

I should say something, come clean. But that would mean confessing my rooming arrangement.

Besides, this wasn’t Soundcheck’s money, it was Will Hale’s. And Hale could afford it, especially since he was the one who had put me through hell and tried to make me quit the tour.

I had thanked Davis, said my goodbyes, and gone all the way back to my car before I looked at the check again. That number was real.

As in, I could move out real. I could afford rent real.

“Holy shit,” I said softly to myself.

I’d done years of college. An eighteen-month internship in San Francisco that hadn’t led to a job. Dozens of spec pieces. Twenty or thirty job interviews. The Travis White interview, which had paid me eight hundred dollars, money I was glad to get. Then I’d done the crazy grind of the Road Kings tour, nearly going broke. And after all of that, I was finally starting my career for real. I was getting regular, paid work at a job I loved, the opportunity to write from the heart instead of selling my soul.

I could do this.

I picked up my phone, then paused. I had the immediate impulse to call Stone, to shout the great news at him. He wouldn’t be effusive, but he’d understand how big this was. My parents were my cheerleaders, but I’d never told them how hard the tour was. Stone was the one who knew what it had taken for me to get here.

And I wanted to make him proud of me. His approval was so hard to win, and deep down, I wanted it. More badly than I’d thought.

But that was wrong. None of this was about him, or his approval. This was about me.

Last night loomed in my memory, and suddenly it seemed real in a way that terrified me. Stone and I had had no pretenses last night. He’d seen me as no one else ever had, even guys I’d dated. And I had the feeling I’d seen something he’d never shown to anyone else, too.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

Unsure of what to do, I defaulted back to our usual communication: insult over text.

Sienna

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