Page 26 of What Happened Last Night

I would never kiss her.

I also wanted to spend a Sunday afternoon with her, doing whatever she liked to do. So I’d take that option instead.

“Didn’t you hear me say it was boring?” Luna asked.

“I have a vast capacity for boredom,” I replied. “Try me.”

She laughed. And then we were all right again.

ELEVEN

Will

Saturday was hot, with the tinge of smoke in the air from a wildfire in the distance. Summer was almost officially over, and the air hung like a haze, heavy just above our heads. Rain was coming. Maybe a storm.

I sat at the plastic patio table in Stone’s backyard, my laptop open in front of me. Stone lived in a small bungalow he’d bought from Denver last year, when Denver and Callie bought a house together. Callie owned a piano that was too big to fit in the living room of this house, and where Callie went, her piano went—along with her cat. So as far as Denver was concerned, this house had to go.

Stone took the house off Denver’s hands. After a lifetime as a touring rock star living out of a duffel bag and a van, it was the first house Stone had ever owned, and it was a work in progress. The dishes were secondhand and mismatched. The living room was cluttered with guitars and Stone’s stereo. The linen closet in the hallway contained exactly one bath towel, one dish towel, one top sheet, and one pillowcase. It was nothing like my penthouse, but I liked it here, and I visited here as often as Stone would tolerate me. Every part of this place gave me a window into my half brother’s personality.

“The neighbors stare at me,” Stone complained as he banged open the lid of the barbecue. He fiddled with the knob on the propane tank. “I don’t know what the fuck their problem is.”

I sipped my beer. “You’re a novelty. You’re over six feet tall and look like a biker. Also, you’re a rock star.”

Stone shot a scowl at me. With his dark hair, dark beard, and huge size, Stone’s scowl was forbidding to those not familiar with it. I was not one of those people. “Denver was a rock star when he lived here,” he argued in his low, cranky growl. “They didn’t stare at him like they stare at me.”

Unlike Stone, I was not surprised in the least that the young families and sedate seniors who lived in this neighborhood stared at him. “Then it’s the biker thing,” I explained calmly. “They’re wondering if you’re going to rob them. Or start selling drugs to their kids.”

Stone snorted in derision. “I’m not that interesting. People need to mind their own fucking business.” He clicked the ignition on the barbecue and flinched back when the propane whooshed as it caught. “The fuck,” he growled at no one in particular. I fought hard to keep a straight face.

The back door slid open and Stone’s girlfriend, Sienna Maplethorpe, came out. “Okay, sorry,” she said to me. “I had to take that phone call. It was one of my editors. Let’s get to work.”

She crossed the patio to my table. Sienna was nine years younger than Stone—twenty-nine to his thirty-eight—and was a talented, up-and-coming music journalist. She’d met Stone when she wrote profiles of the band that later won her an award, and now she wrote for Rolling Stone and a lot of other publications. She’d been the one to unearth the fact that Stone and I were related and that I was keeping it secret. She’d made me confess under threat of torture. Well, not really, but close.

There were rumors she was working on a book proposal, but we were all on strict instructions not to ask her about it.

Sienna had glasses and dark hair cut to her shoulders. She wore a blue knee-length jersey dress and white Keds. She didn’t live in the house with Stone, though they were very serious. She’d only moved out of her parents’ house last year, and they were taking it slow as her career took off.

For Sienna, Stone would have infinite patience. He’d wait until he was ninety if that was what she wanted. They were going to do this their own way, focused on their work and their relationship, without the marriage-and-babies script that other people used.

Now, as she passed behind her scowling boyfriend, she casually smacked his ass through his jeans, the sound ringing loud. Stone didn’t react, staring instead at the barbecue as if it might bite him. Sienna pulled a chair up next to me and looked at my laptop.

“We don’t have to do this now,” I said for maybe the third time. “This is work, and it’s the weekend.”

“We’re doing it now,” Sienna said confidently. “Stone is going to make us dinner. If he can.”

“I heard that, Maplethorpe,” Stone said. “I’ve been feeding myself all my life. You have no faith in me at all.”

“I’ve seen your fridge,” Sienna shot back. “According to its contents, you live off kimchi, barbecue sauce, a half-empty can of beer, and a single tortilla. It’s safe to say I excitedly await the culinary magic you will supposedly produce.”

“You’re using big words to hurt my head again.” Stone glared at us. “I can’t believe I once went to a party and woke up two days later in the wrong city on the floor of Metallica’s roadie van, and now I’m spending my Saturday with two nerds who want to talk about a website.”

I blinked at him. “You’re friends with Metallica?”

“Never met them in my life.” He turned and walked into the house.

“He’s in a good mood today,” I commented.

“He is,” Sienna agreed. “That was one of his happy rants.”

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