Page 16 of Reverb

I winced as I closed the door behind me. Mom had no idea. I already knew a smart girl, had spent weeks sleeping a few feet away from her, and she didn’t want me.

As I walked to the car, the old couple who lived a few doors down walked by with their dog. They gave me a frosty look. This was a nice neighborhood—not rich, but decent—and the neighbors never took to me and Mom. They never gave us a chance from the beginning. Especially me.

I’d been trouble for all of my teenage years, and I’d loved to play guitar in the garage at full volume. I’d learned to play that way, which meant that the neighbors had been subjected to my shitty practicing. Instead of being ashamed, I’d found it fun to piss them off. I’d done it again just a few months ago, when the Road Kings had played a free concert in the garage before we left for the reunion tour. There was a crowd of hundreds of fans on the street. We’d played for twenty minutes before the cops shut us down.

One of the first things I’d learned—from Mom, from her various boyfriends and husbands who sometimes smacked me around, from the kids who made fun of me at school—is that no matter what you do, you can’t please everyone. So why please anyone?

Fuck ‘em all.

I gave the old couple the finger and they hurried away.

I got in my car, my bad mood finally lifting.

* * *

I lived in a small rental apartment in one of Portland’s less-trendy neighborhoods, far from the hipsters and the nice restaurants. The people in my building were overworked parents and guys who worked as night custodians. The lobby smelled like weed most nights. I could have afforded better, but no one here bothered me, and this was the kind of place where I felt at home.

I rode the stuffy elevator to the fourth floor and let myself into my place. I hadn’t furnished it with much—just a sofa, a TV, and a small kitchen table with chairs. A laptop. A bookshelf lined one wall. My bedroom contained a bed and a tall dresser. My most precious possessions—my guitars, pedals, and amps—were kept in a rented storage unit that had security cameras and three locks on it. I didn’t trust them here. If anyone wanted to rob me, all they’d get was a few pairs of ripped jeans and the six pack in the fridge.

I unlaced my boots, kicked them off, and walked into the bedroom, where I opened the closet and stared into it. I ran my hands through my hair in despair. I’d fucked myself good, because I had no idea what to wear to this dinner.

It wasn’t a date. Then again, it was a business meeting, and Angie was a classy woman, so I shouldn’t dress like a slob. Then again, I was a rock star who wore his only sport jacket to funerals and no other time, and Angie knew that.

In my back pocket, my phone buzzed on Silent. I took it out and saw a text.

Sienna

I don’t know which one of us is supposed to apologize. I lie awake at night thinking it might be me.

My throat went tight and something hard squeezed inside my chest. Only this particular woman would write a text like this: wordy, nerdy, straight to the point. Fucking painful. I wanted to turn my phone off, ignore her, but I was incapable of ignoring Maplethorpe. Instead I typed a response.

Stone

What do you want, Maplethorpe?

Her reply came in seconds.

Sienna

You know I did an interview with Axel, right? He told me about his addiction and his rehab.

My defenses went up. A reflex. I didn’t like the thought of anyone fucking with Axel.

Stone

So?

Sienna

So, now I know why it was a sober tour. You were all staying clean for Axel’s sake. And not one of you talked behind his back. I think about that.

I didn’t reply, but apparently, she wasn’t finished.

Sienna

Another thing I think about when I lie awake at night is that first night in New Orleans.

I blinked at my phone. What about New Orleans? Why was she thinking about it? Why wasn’t she sleeping? She’d slept perfectly while she was staying with me. It was me who had stayed awake those nights while she slept, my thoughts running rampant in my head.

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