Page 53 of Reverb

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I texted Stone that we needed to set up his photo shoot.

His answer was two words: Make me.

TWENTY

Stone

It was childish. I knew that. It should be beneath me. But Sienna liked a challenge, and we’d both been busy, and we hadn’t seen each other. My days were starting to feel a weird echo of emptiness without Sienna in them. So if she wanted me to submit to having a photo taken, she’d have to make me.

I wasn’t sure how she would do it. Her method would likely involve blackmail or some kind of pain. Or both. I was ready. I’d agreed to do it, so eventually I’d give in, but I would make it hard for her for as long as I could.

I didn’t like having my picture taken. There was nothing about it that interested me or gave me any pleasure. I didn’t like dressing for it, I didn’t like posing, I didn’t like the fakeness of it, and I definitely didn’t like looking at myself. I didn’t think I was ugly, but I saw my own face enough in the mirror when I trimmed my beard. I didn’t need to see it in pictures. Why would anyone care what I looked like, anyway?

For once, though, my phone didn’t start chiming with texts from Sienna, containing her usual arguments, questions, over-analysis, and general provocation. My phone told me she’d read the text. Then silence.

I didn’t know what to make of that. Maybe she was mad at me. Maybe she was plotting something. Maybe she was just busy. Maybe she’d gotten what she wanted in bed and was done with me. Maybe she’d rethought things and decided a pencil-necked music theory dipshit was a better idea.

Maybe I’d done something wrong, something I didn’t know about.

Maybe it was nothing, and she wasn’t thinking about me at all.

I fucking hated this.

I rehearsed with the Road Kings, I worked out at the gym, and then I went home. I ate popcorn and half of a leftover vegetarian burrito. I sat on my sofa, wearing only sweatpants and watching a weird show about race car drivers on TV. It made no sense. I had no idea why anyone would do such an idiotic activity. Who were these guys?

On the coffee table, my phone vibrated with a call. I planned to ignore it as per my usual, but it was face-up and I could see that the caller was Sienna.

I grabbed it and answered. Sienna had never called me before, and my first thought was that something was wrong.

“Sienna?” I said when I answered.

“Stone.” She was outside somewhere. I could hear traffic. Was she stranded? “What are you doing right now?”

“Is there a problem?” I meant it as concern, but the words came out annoyed, like she’d interrupted me.

“I can call back,” she said.

“No.” I barked the word, then made myself regroup. “It’s fine. I’m sitting at home. I just thought maybe you had a problem.”

She generously ignored the fact that I sounded like I had only learned how to speak English last week. “Why did you think I have a problem?”

“Because this is the first time you’ve ever called me.”

“It is?” She sounded genuinely surprised. “Jeez, I guess it is. I can call you more often if you want. But you have to answer.”

I had answered. I would always answer if it was her. “What’s going on?” I asked her. “Where are you?”

“I’m in a cab,” Sienna said. She sounded cheerful, if a little confused by my reaction. She could join the club. “Have you ever heard of Club Grange?”

“Yeah, I’ve been there a few times. Why are you going there?”

“I’m going to check out a band that’s playing there tonight. They’re supposed to be a modern rockabilly thing. They’re called Mudhole.”

I winced, sitting there alone on my sofa. Mudhole was the kind of band name I would have come up with when I was fifteen. “Maplethorpe. Why are you making a trip to see a band called Mudhole?”

“Because Soundcheck wants me to write about the local scene here in Portland. They want me to identify which bands people should know about. They want me to turn in regular pieces about up-and-coming acts. So I’m starting tonight.”

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