Page 7 of Reverb

THEN

Sienna

I was almost positive Stone was sneaking cigarettes. I caught a whiff last night, when we rode the elevator to our shared room. It was a faint scent, and it could have been transferred from someone else and lingered in his clothes, but I didn’t quite think so.

“I don’t smoke,” I’d said to him.

“Neither do I,” he’d replied.

Those were the only words we’d spoken.

Stone had avoided any awkwardness about sharing a room by dropping his bags on one of the two beds, handing me a key card, and leaving again like his ass was on fire. There was no show, so I had no idea where he was going, and I didn’t ask. He hadn’t come back until hours later.

I’d thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep with him in the room, but after the day I’d had, I must have been exhausted. I didn’t remember anything after I closed my eyes.

Now he was gone—without a word to me, of course—to sound check for tonight’s show, and I had the room to myself.

It was a nice room—nicer than any I’d been given so far on this tour. The band was given the best rooms in the hotel, of course. Since Stone would be gone for the rest of the afternoon, I changed into comfy clothes, set up my laptop at the desk, and worked on my next article.

In the quiet of the room, I could grudgingly admit that Stone had done me a favor. This was much better than working in my car, in a coffee shop, or in a hostel.

I studiously did not look at Stone’s bed, did not think about it. As promised, Stone hadn’t come on to me. He hadn’t even spoken to me. I didn’t seem to be his type, which was a relief because he definitely wasn’t mine. We had successfully tolerated each other during the hours he was here.

When I got hungry, I ordered room service—screw it, it could be paid on Stone’s bill—and when I took a writing break, I tried calling the Soundcheck office again. The assistant I’d talked to yesterday said there was “no news.” So I wrote until it was time to get ready for tonight’s show.

Why had Stone made me such a generous offer when he hated me? Ego, probably. It made him feel like a big deal to let me use his room. Or maybe he thought my gratitude would buy him my loyalty when I wrote my articles. Who knew what kind of thoughts went through a spoiled rock star’s head?

I put on black jeans, a white tank top, and my trusty Doc Martens for the show. It would be sweaty, crowded, loud—and fun. Live music was the reason I’d gotten into this business, and it was still the highlight.

There was a reason the Road Kings were known for their live shows, and as much as they frustrated me, I could admit that they were geniuses onstage. Denver Gilchrist, the gorgeous lead singer with the killer voice. Neal Watts, the flawless bass player. Axel de Vries, the brilliant blond drummer. And, of course, Stone Zeeland, guitar god.

Stone wasn’t a showman who played to the crowd, yet he was a big presence onstage—focused, intense, easy in his body. I was still processing exactly what he was doing up there—the playing speed he was capable of, the highs and lows, the variety of sound, the sobbing emotion he could produce. It was hard to reconcile that with the scowling man, incapable of feeling, that he was in real life.

But I was going to forget all of that for a while. I might not be allowed backstage, and I might not get interviews with the band, but I could still go to the shows and listen to the music. I grabbed my bag and left to see what the night would bring.

* * *

At two thirty in the morning, I came back to the room to find Stone standing there, his muscled arms crossed as he watched me come through the door. He was, as usual, scowling.

“Where the hell have you been?” he barked.

I was surprised. It had been a crazy night, but I’d had no idea Stone had even noticed I was still gone. “I was at the show,” I said.

His gaze traveled down me and up again, assessing. It wasn’t a leering look. His eyes were dark brown, like chocolate, his lashes dark. “Are you hurt?”

This was a valid question. Tonight’s Road Kings show had been cut short when the power was cut to the venue, sending much of the crowd running out of the exit doors in panic. I’d been one of them.

“I’m not hurt.” I bent to unlace my boots. “Someone bumped into my shoulder—hard—and it’ll probably bruise, but that’s it.”

“Did you get it checked out?”

I let out a disbelieving laugh. “And rack up an urgent care bill because someone hit my shoulder? Not all of us are rich rock stars, Stone. I’m fine.”

This seemed to make him mad. “If you weren’t at the hospital, where were you since the show ended? I heard that some people got hurt.”

“Nothing serious.” I kicked off my boots and walked to my suitcase, unzipping it. “The paramedics treated a couple of sprains and a couple of panic attacks. No one was admitted to the hospital. It could have been a lot worse.” I rifled through my suitcase, looking for my pajamas. “As for where I’ve been, I was covering the story. Also known as doing my job.”

“What does that mean?”

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