A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) (11 page)

“Show her the mouse picture,” Tank said, moving to the couch to sit on Melody’s other side. Rip, too, got up and leaned over the back of the couch.

“What’s everybody looking at?” Jesper asked as he entered the room with a large cardboard box tucked under one arm.

“Emma at Disneyland,” Rip said.

“She’s not doing well,” Tank added. “Power of positive thought.”

“Right on,” Jesper said, joining Rip behind the couch.

Dylan pulled up his picture folder and opened the album from Disneyland. Emma had been seven, and it had been her, Grace, and the band at the Magic Kingdom. Emma’s father hadn’t been able to handle the illness, and had taken off when she had turned four. Grace said she was grateful he’d left when he did, because Emma had been too young to remember him properly. He’d tried to make contact once after that, but had run scared again, leaving Grace in tears and Emma confused. Dylan and Jesper had tracked him down after that, and they had made sure the scumbag knew never to wander back into their lives again.

The first picture was a group shot in front of the Magic Castle. Even Snake was grinning, unable to resist Emma’s infectious enthusiasm. Her smile was lopsided, missing a couple teeth, but to Dylan, it looked perfect. He glanced at Melody and tried to imagine what she saw: a little girl, too small for her age, with her Minnie Mouse-ears hat and her yellow princess dress, surrounded by a bunch of rockers sporting unshaven faces, long hair, and doting expressions.

He swiped his finger, and the second picture in the album appeared, this one depicting Emma getting a hug from Cinderella. Next, Grace and Emma on the Teacups, Emma’s face split in a huge grin. Emma sandwiched between Rip and Tank on Pirates of the Caribbean; Dylan holding Emma on his shoulders, her hands covering his eyes as he staggered around dramatically, just so he could hear her laugh.

Dylan chanced a look at Melody again. There was a mixture of emotions on her face. Joy, because the images truly were magical; amusement, because by the end of the day, all the band members had donned novelty Disney hats; and sorrow, because she knew that the little girl who seemed so happy in those pictures was suffering now.

“She looks really happy,” Melody said softly, looking up at Dylan with a new expression, one he couldn’t quite read.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly, putting his phone back into his pocket. “It was a fun day.”

“It was awesome,” Tank agreed. “We took her on the Matterhorn and she almost threw up.”

“I thought Grace was gonna skin you guys alive,” Rip laughed.

“She somehow managed to bruise up my arm with her tiny fist,” Jesper said with a fond smile.

Dylan had to stop thinking about Emma before he got on stage tonight, or the fans wouldn’t get the wild, outrageous show they were expecting; they’d get three hours of emo rock songs.

“What’s in the box?” he asked Jesper, in an attempt to distract himself.

Jesper smiled. “We’ve got Mom Cookies.”

Tank gasped—actually
gasped—
and dove over the back of the couch. “Gimme.”

Melody looked amused and a little uncertain. “‘Mom Cookies?’” she asked.

“Jesper’s mom is pretty much our number one fan,” Dylan said, absently rubbing the back of his neck. “When we were starting out, she had band shirts printed up for us, gave us the garage for rehearsal space, and baked cookies to keep our morale up. We’re past the point where we need homemade T-shirts, but she still insists on sending cookies.”

“Oh my God, so good,” Tank moaned around a mouthful.

“Toffee chocolate chip,” Jesper announced, glancing at a note. “And pecan brittle.”

“Brittle me,” Rip said, digging through the box.

“Toss me one of the chocolate chip ones,” Dylan decided.

“One of each,” Melody begged.

“How do you not weigh three hundred pounds?” Dylan asked.
You’re so good at this not being a prick thing,
his inner voice added dryly.

But seriously, how is she not three hundred pounds?

“You guys probably haven’t noticed because you have the sleep schedule of stoners,” she answered, popping a piece of cookie into her mouth, “but I wake up at six-thirty every morning and run five miles, unless I’m in a moving bus of course. It’s worth it, because it means I can eat whatever I want.” A piece of brittle followed the cookie and she moaned, a pleased little sound that went straight to Dylan’s groin.

“Good, right?” he asked.

“I want to have sex with this brittle,” she sighed.

I think you already are
. Dylan kept that comment to himself. Barely.

One point for not being a prick.

**

The crowd was going wild. They were on their third, totally unplanned encore of the night, something that never happened in the music world. But no musician could resist the demand of a crowd that loved so freely, so intensely.

“
Call of the Wild
,” Jesper said as they filed back onto the stage.

“Excellent,” Dylan agreed, taking his place behind the mic. He glanced back to give the countdown when he noticed Melody’s expression. Her eyes were wide and slightly panicked. Her injured hand fluttered over the strings, trying to recall an unfamiliar bass line. He realized she was trying to remember the way
Call of the Wild
went. It was a song they only ever played live, since it had been cut last-minute from three of their studio albums. Hardcore Dust and Bones fans knew and loved it, but they were the only ones.

Dylan couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He walked over to Melody and gave her a look he hoped she would take at face value:
Trust me. Go with it.

She was wary, but he knew her well enough by now to know that she wasn’t a grudge holder. She was the kind of person who would give him more chances than he would ever deserve. He leaned into her microphone.

“Most of you out there probably know this one,” he said, the screams from the audience almost deafening. “But I need a little reminder. Do you think our lovely bassist will help me out?”

More incomprehensible screams bellowed from the crowd.

He moved behind Melody and placed his hands over hers on the guitar, mindful of the burn on her palm. He sent her another silent apology as the pads of his fingers gently brushed over the white bandage Jesper had insisted she wear. She’d said it would make her clumsy, but her playing had been flawless, as usual.

Dylan moved Melody’s fingers over the keys, picking the wild, chaotic baseline Snake had written, a jungle anthem beat. Dylan wondered what it would sound like tempered with Melody’s unique sweetness, and couldn’t wait for her to take over. His body, on the other hand, would have been content to stay pressed up against her back for the rest of the night as he guided her hands over her red guitar. His cheek brushed against hers as he leaned into the microphone again, the purple streak in her hair tickling his chin.

“Is this how it goes?” he asked the crowd, playing up his confusion for show.

More incomprehensible screams of approval came from the audience. Dylan let his hands ghost above Melody’s, proud when she continued the rhythm he’d just taught her.

Dylan pressed his mouth against her ear, away from the microphone. “Take your tempo cues from Tank. Keep it like that, free and wild and sweet.”
Just like you
.

She smiled, gratitude and relief stretching her mouth. And she played as if she’d learned the song years ago and knew it like the back of her hand. The band fused together on that song like they never had before. Dylan felt the energy in his bones, the spark that represented true chemistry and artistry.

They finished, and filed off the stage to even more thunderous applause.

“Sorry, Mel,” Jesper said, smiling sheepishly. “I forget, you know?”

“Forget what?” she laughed.

“That you haven’t been here all along,” Tank said, slinging an arm over her shoulder. She smiled and let him lead her away.

Dylan watched them go. He was forgetting, too—that he was supposed to want her out, that she didn’t want him the way that he wanted her, and that all the dangerous thoughts stirring in his head were better left safely locked away.

“We need to celebrate,” Rip announced.

“I know how you guys celebrate a gig,” Melody reminded him. “Count me out, but have fun.”

“The bus is still in the repair bay,” Jesper said.

“Then we need a bar,” Tank shouted. “And shots. Lots of shots.”

“You guys go ahead,” Dylan said. “I’ve had my alcohol quota for the…month.”

“We don’t want to leave you alone…” Rip began, though he didn’t sound very convincing.

“It’s fine,” Dylan laughed. “I’ll try to write. Go. Show Seattle how we do it.”

“Right on,” Tank said, wrapping one arm around Jesper and the other around Melody, who looked over her shoulder at Dylan, offering him a little smile—perhaps a smile of encouragement? He liked to think so.

As his bandmates left, Dylan sighed and looked around, trying to find the best spot to recapture that indescribable feeling he’d had on stage. After a quick shower, some TV and a couple of beers, maybe he could finally find his writing mojo.

**

The theater had emptied, and the main stage lights had dimmed. A janitor had already been in to sweep up, but Dylan was alone now, tickling the keys of the grand piano which was still set up, trying to remember the words and images that had lit him on fire an hour ago.

“Hey, Music Man.”

He looked up, surprised to hear her voice. Melody made her way toward him, bumping her hip against the piano. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest,” he said, patting the bench beside him. She took a seat. He could almost feel an electric current pass between their bodies, even though she kept a safe distance between them.

“How’s the songwriting?” she asked.

“Not as productive as I’d hoped it would be,” he admitted. “How was drinking with the boys?”

“Not as productive as I’d hoped it would be,” she repeated, laughing with him. “Rip met a girl who’s pierced everything on her body that can be pierced, and a couple of things that can’t be.”

“So he’s in love,” Dylan surmised.

“Basically.” Melody moved her fingers over the keys with him, finding a counterpoint to the notes he was idly tapping out.

This is your chance. Operation ‘don’t be a prick’ has the opportunity for huge strides.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, completely inelegantly.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’d forgive you if I knew which of your many sins you were apologizing for,” she teased.

“All of them,” he said, immensely relieved that she wasn’t going to make this too hard on him. Of course she wasn’t going to do that—unlike him, she wasn’t a prick. She was a truly good person. “I’ve been awful to you, and you haven’t deserved that.” He took a deep breath. “You’re saving us, Mel. And I don’t just mean with the reporter—although believe me, I am well aware that I owe you a car.”

“I already have a car,” she told him loftily. “I want a boat.”

“Done,” he said. “But you have to call it the S.S. Tank.”

“He’ll be thrilled about that,” she snickered. “But thanks. I appreciate you owning up to bad behavior. And that was some spectacularly bad behavior you’ve been exhibiting, buster.”

“I know,” he groaned. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.”

“I think I do.” She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t ask her to. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to know how accurately she had psychoanalyzed his twisted mental state. He just knew he was done taking his problems out on her.

“So,” she continued, “I’ve never really seen you alone before. Do you go off by yourself like this a lot?”

“Only when I’m writing,” Dylan confirmed. “The other guys—I love them, but Tank can’t sit still for five minutes, Rip starts trying to work a three minute drum solo into every song, and Jesper wants everything to come from some dark, emotional place. I wrote a song a couple of years ago called
Jukebox Jive
, and he tried to work suicide into the chorus.”

Melody laughed, as he’d hoped she would. “Well, what song doesn’t become an instant radio hit when you work in suicide?”

“Not you, too,” he groaned. “Anyway, if I’m not writing, I hang with the guys and we do…you know. Guy stuff.”
Smoking. Drinking. Fucking. Not always in that order.

“Mm-hmm,” she murmured, as if she knew exactly what he hadn’t said out loud. Her fingers were still moving over the keys, and he suddenly realized that his were moving in concert with hers. The sound coming from the piano sounded suspiciously like…

“Are we writing a melody, Melody?” he whispered, with an over-exaggerated sense of shock that was only partly feigned.

“I think we are, Dylan,” she stage-whispered.

“You know, I think there’s a lot more to our antagonism than I previously thought,” Dylan continued. “I like you, Melody.” He almost couldn’t believe it. It had been so long since he’d produced anything even remotely in the neighborhood of good.

“Aw, thanks. I knew we could get along better. As for the tune, I think it should go a little something like
this
,” she corrected, adding a few sharper notes to the tune.

“I need a muse like you,” he said.

“I prefer collaborator,” she informed him.

“You can be Grandmaster General if you keep my brain on task,” he said, laughing simply because for one stupid moment in time, he felt joyful.

“What are the words to this song?” she asked, after a few more minutes of riffing.

“I have no idea,” he answered, but that didn’t scare him like it would have a week ago. This was a song he was learning as he went along. He gave her a sidelong look—Melody was so beautiful sitting beside him, playing with him, the lone stage light casting a shining halo upon her red hair. He had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her; how he wished he could lay her over this piano and find out if she was wearing the purple lace underthings from her bag.

Dylan always acted on instinct, and this was no different. It felt right. His hands stilled on the keys and he leaned closer to her, his gaze on her full, pink lips—

Her fingers pressed against his mouth, halting his progress.