Page 52 of Reverb

Zena, the photographer assigned to me by Soundcheck, had bright blue hair, a septum ring, and tattoos on her arms. She also had an infectious laugh—which she used often—and the friendly demeanor of a true extrovert. Even though she was the opposite of my introverted self, we hit it off immediately.

When we first met to get acquainted and go over our plans, we ended up talking and laughing until late. She’d graduated art school and supported herself by selling paintings, custom illustrations, and her skills as a photographer. (Her motto was “I won’t shoot your fucking wedding, so do yourself a favor and do not ask me.”) She lived in a rundown apartment with two other roommates, and though I didn’t ask for specifics, when she talked about her love life she seemed accepting of all forms of gender. She was only four years younger than me, but she made me feel like an old lady by comparison.

Still, I wasn’t a complete write-off. Zena said my wardrobe was amazing and she was in awe of the fact that I’d driven myself across the country with a rock band. (“I would have gotten distracted at the first truck stop,” she declared. “I’d probably still be wandering the desert in Arizona, looking for pretty rocks.”) She wasn’t familiar with the Road Kings, but when we listened to them in the car—I wanted her to know their sound so she could get the right feel for their photos—she judged it “decent,” followed by, “I’d do them. I like older guys.”

We met up with Denver Gilchrist on a cloudy afternoon. He drove us around the city, showing us the various neighborhoods he’d lived in during his transient childhood. Since Denver had no family—there were only two distant relatives, neither of whom answered my emails—he could only show me former homes, places he’d once stayed before being pushed out the door again. After listening to him talk about his life for a while, even Zena was subdued.

We ended up at a Walmart where Denver had worked night shifts in the stock room at sixteen, sometimes the only place he had to go at night. We shot him standing in the parking lot, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and the wind tousling his hair, the stark pavement behind him littered with abandoned shopping carts. The look Zena caught on his face was thoughtful and a little bit far away, as if he was going somewhere else in his mind, anywhere but here. It was a great shot, moving and honest.

As we walked back to the car, Zena dropped back and Denver nudged me with an elbow. “What’s up Sienna?” he asked. “Anything new?”

I gave him a side-eye. “Nope. Nothing new.”

“Nothing at all, huh?”

“Can’t think of anything.”

“Interesting. Because lately, I’ve definitely been getting a vibe. A getting-laid vibe.” He affected a perplexed look. “Come to think of it, I’ve been getting the same vibe from Stone. Must be a coincidence.”

Oh, lord. I glanced back, making sure Zena couldn’t hear us. It had been nearly a week since Stone and I spent the night together, and though we texted every day, we hadn’t had our repeat yet. “Knock it off,” I warned Denver in a low voice. “There’s nothing to say.”

He grinned, and too late, I remembered how much the Road Kings enjoyed ribbing each other to death. “Nothing to say, huh? That’s a good line for a song.” His voice rose and he sang, “There’s nothing to say.” He turned and faced backward, lifting his arms and letting his amazing voice reverberate through the parking lot as people turned their heads and I wished I could sink into the pavement. “Sienna says there’s nothing to say.”

Zena looked at me, frowning. “What’s his problem?”

“Please ignore him.” I lifted one of my boots and hit him square in his jean-clad ass with my toe, making him jump and stop singing.

“Oof,” Denver said.

“That’s for abandoning me on the road, you jackass,” I told him.

“Aw, Sienna.” He grinned his shit-eating grin again. “I think you should thank me. It toughened you up, didn’t it?”

Then he dodged and ran, because I was ready with my boot again. I chased him all the way back to the car.

* * *

Neal Watts invited us to his house to do the shoot, which had the added benefit that I got to snoop through his personal space. Raine and Amber weren’t home at his bungalow, but I took in a girl’s soccer uniform discarded over a chair, Amber’s schedule stuck to the fridge with a magnet, and a well-read, dog-eared book called Savvy Financial Investments for Savvy Women lying on the coffee table. One of Neal’s guitars was on a stand in the living room, and Amber’s school photo was propped on top of the stereo. This was a lived-in home, and a happy one.

We shot Neal on his back patio, sitting on a lawn chair that was fraying but holding up. He wore jeans and an old tee. His feet were bare, his brown hair slightly long, his beard trim, his posture relaxed. With his lean build and the understated silver rings on his fingers, he looked exactly like a rock star relaxing at home between gigs. The contrast between Neal, barefoot in his frayed chair, and the serene green of his lawn was striking.

We talked for a while, and I realized I wasn’t exactly doing an interview anymore. Zena and I were doing as much talking as Neal was. Zena had put her camera down and Neal had crossed an ankle over his other knee in his rundown chair. He was easy to talk to, easy to like. I was starting to forget how hard everything had been with the Road Kings at first. They’d been dicks to me, but only because they hadn’t trusted me. They didn’t trust the music business, the backer who wouldn’t give them his name, or anyone who was out to profit off them. The more I knew them, the more I got it.

“Okay,” Zena said when we left. “I don’t just like older guys now. I think I might prefer them. I mean, hello? Maturity and emotional intelligence are hot.”

“You haven’t seen them play,” I told her, and she waggled her eyebrows.

* * *

Axel was at The Corner, the coffee shop he co-owned with a friend that was one of his incomes while the band was off the road. We had coffee at a table near the back. It was ten o’clock on a weekday morning, and the pre-work rush had tapered off. The customers in The Corner at this time of morning were the unemployed, the artistic, and the remote-work types who could put in an hour or two at the laptop while good music played on the sound system and their dog sat at their feet. It was a comfortable, easy vibe, the same kind that Axel himself gave off.

Axel de Vries was smart, funny, self-deprecating, and bluntly honest. After he’d injured his wrist on the road years ago, he’d fallen prey to an opiate addiction that had taken a stay at rehab to kick. He’d wanted to keep that part of his history private during the tour because, as he put it, “I wasn’t even sure I could do it, and if I talked about it, I’d start to dwell.” But he had done it. He’d hired Brit as his sobriety companion. She’d been his best friend at the time. Now she was his girlfriend.

But Axel was more than just a cautionary tale about addiction. We talked about his life, how his parents had died in an accident when he was nine, how his grandparents had taken him and his siblings in. How music had saved him. “You lose part of your identity when you lose both your parents,” Axel said. “Music gave me that back.”

Music—and the band. Though, in his words, he was “just the drummer” (“we’re the useful idiots of the music business,” he added). He had keen insight into the Road Kings’ music as well as their future direction. As he talked, he absently picked up a stir stick and flipped it through his fingers. He had innate grace and ease in his body that Brit said was due to his devotion to yoga. I tried very hard not to think that was hot, because Brit was my friend.

Zena got her shot of Axel when we left the coffee shop and walked down the street. She captured him standing on the sidewalk, wearing ripped jeans and an unbuttoned shirt over a tee, his blond hair under a dark beanie. His blue eyes looked into the camera as people walked past behind him, completely ignoring him. A man alone in a crowd, surrounded by people but somehow solitary.

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