Page 25 of Reverb

“Because the music’s good,” Stone said.

“Other than that.”

“There ain’t anything other than that.” Stone’s grammar was sometimes off. It was rare, but it happened. I had no idea why I found it charming and sexy. The musician problem. “Women like good music, just like men do. ‘Cause, you know, they’re people.”

I watched him take another enormous bite of hamburger. There was something to that—that the Road Kings saw women as people, not sex objects—but I wasn’t about to delve into feminist theory with him. “There’s something universal about the lyrics,” I said. “Pain, grief, loneliness. Almost none of your songs are about sex, about scoring.”

Stone shrugged, swallowing again. “Lyrics are Denver’s thing.”

“Ah, yes. Denver.” I nodded. Denver Gilchrist was undeniably a big appeal to women, even though he didn’t try to be. Gorgeous, poetic, dreamy, with a voice that could turn you on and make you cry at the same time. “He’s part of the appeal.”

Stone looked annoyed. “Jeez, Maplethorpe, keep your pants on. Denver has a girlfriend.”

I sighed. “I’m trying to make a point here, not moon over your lead singer. I know intellectual discourse isn’t your strong suit, but get your mind out of the gutter and try to keep up.”

“Ouch,” Stone said, picking up the last piece of his burger. “Nice one. You’re getting good at this.”

Why did I feel warm at the compliment? I’d just insulted him. This man turned everything backward and upside down. “It isn’t just the lyrics, though,” I continued. “It’s also the sound. The way you mix the blues influence with the heavier edge. But the beat borrows a lot from funk.”

“The beats are all Axel,” Stone said. “You have a crush on him, too?”

“Gosh, why would I?” I said sarcastically. “Tall, blond, blue-eyed men who look like models and have perfect rhythm aren’t my type. I mean, gross.”

“Too late,” Stone shot back. “If you aren’t Brit, you won’t get anywhere with him.”

I frowned. “Brit is his friend and the band’s assistant, not his girlfriend.”

“I’m talking about sex, here, Maplethorpe,” Stone said. “Two people who are dying to fuck each other, if only they would admit it. Try to keep up.”

I gaped at him. How had we ended up talking about sex? And what, exactly, was he talking about?

“Some of the songs I understand.” I steered the conversation away from his hot bandmates. “At least, I think I do. ‘Precious Metal’—that one is open to interpretation, which I think is intentional. The singer is desperate for the precious metal, and the listener can fill in what they think that is. ‘Killing Me’ is very clearly about sex, but he’s singing about how the woman has all of the power in their dynamic, how she could crush him if she chose to, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s even happy about it. It isn’t about a woman becoming a man’s possession at all. I hope to God that song is about Callie Whitmer, because if a man I was seeing sang that song about another woman, I’d be furious.”

Stone had gone very still. He watched me, silent.

His gaze made me uncomfortable. I cleared my throat. “Here’s the interesting thing,” I said. “This song, ‘Fuck You, California.’ The credits state that you wrote this one yourself.” I called up the lyrics on my laptop and quoted them. “I shot my shot/I blew my load/I did it all/I’m on the road/Fuck you, California.’” I looked up at him. “That sounds personal. When did you live in California?”

“Before the Road Kings.” Stone said the words softly, without his usual growl. “It was my first band. We went to L.A. to try and make it big.”

I frowned. “The Road Kings formed when you were nineteen. You must have been—”

“Seventeen,” Stone supplied. “We were there just over a year. Then I came home.”

“What happened?”

I couldn’t read his expression. I had no idea what I was seeing in his eyes. What kind of parent lets their seventeen-year-old kid move to L.A. alone? What kind of childhood did he have?

“We didn’t make it big,” Stone said after a pause. “So I started over.”

“This song is so angry.” I dropped my gaze to the lyrics on my screen again, quoting. “‘We’d have gardens on Mars, you swore/But we were just kids, going to war.’ War? That line is so sad. It doesn’t sound at all like kids partying in a band.”

Stone rubbed a hand over his face. I listened to the rasp of his palm over his beard. “Maplethorpe,” he said, and there was something in the syllables of my name that gave me chills. Like he was repeating it to himself, a mantra. “Maplethorpe. I’m not talking about L.A., okay? If I wanted to talk about it, I’d have called the song ‘Hey, Let’s Talk About California Because It’s My Favorite Topic, It Was So Great.’ Right? Now I’m in a shit mood. I’d rather talk about something good.”

“Like what?”

“Tell me about your parents,” he said. “Your life. Whatever you want. Just talk.”

I shifted in my seat, uneasy. He was changing the subject, and I didn’t feel the usual angry frustration at his refusal to talk. He wasn’t being petulant or rebellious this time, and I was chilled by what he wasn’t saying. It disconcerted me, frightened me even. There was something I was missing, and I had the feeling it was something bad.

---