Melody of Truth (Love of a Rockstar Book 3) (2 page)

THE DARK CAST OF THE
hallway sent shadows dancing across her jagged features. She was beautiful, but not in the conventional way. She didn’t have pouty lips or bright blue doe eyes that blinked with innocence, the standard sort I normally went for—which now seemed utterly mundane, like a Mapex drum set.

As a musician who lived his life in the limelight, I was used to women’s sultry gazes that practically said,
You can fuck me anywhere, any time
. The ring on my left hand had prevented me from taking them up on the offer and even after the divorce, my dick had stayed firmly in my pants. No woman had incited a flicker of interest until that moment, and my skin felt stripped raw underneath her inky black irises.

“I really have to get changed before the meeting starts. A huge ketchup stain on my t-shirt doesn’t send the best first impression.” Her maroon painted lips thinned as she paled. “Shit, I got it on you too.”

Huh? Glancing downward, I saw the source of her panic: a crimson mark on my ratty vintage cutoff T-shirt. “It’s fine. I’m just glad you weren’t hurt by my unintentional tackle.”

“My tailbone is a little sore, but otherwise I’m fit as a fiddle.”

“Do you have an extra outfit?”

Melody looked at her carryon. I was taken aback at the small suitcase, which appeared as if it could only fit a couple items of clothing. My ex-wife brought a U-Haul for an overnighter, saying it was better to be prepared than underprepared.

As if Melody sensed my disbelief, she grinned. “I’m used to traveling light. It’s easier to lug around when you’re hopping trains in Vietnam or walking through the jungles of Columbia.”

“You’ve done those things?”

“Yes, haven’t you?”

I laughed at her smart-ass remark. “Touring as a musician doesn’t leave time for exploring. You are on the road, the stage, or the tour bus.”

“How do you seek inspiration if not through the world?”

“I don’t need inspiration to play the drums.”

“Everybody needs inspiration,” she said passionately.

I had been a drummer since the age of two, banging on pots and pans in the kitchen while my mother cooked dinner. Twenty-something years later, it had become muscle memory.

Melody didn’t seem as if she be would content with that answer though, so I changed the subject. “The women’s bathroom is out of order, but I’m sure there is another one around here somewhere.”

“There isn’t time. I pride myself on being punctual and I’m already cutting it close.” She looked around and unzipped her suitcase.

Shock shot straight through my system when her fingers went to the pearl inlay buttons on her blouse. “What are you doing?”

“I’m changing. Will you keep watch?” A laugh as rich as warmed milk erupted from her throat at my unblinking expression. “Have I offended your delicate morals?”

“No. You just caught me off guard, which I thought was impossible after years of living in the realm of musicians.”

“When you’re abroad, you don’t have the luxuries of home, like privacy, for example. I’ve gotten used to being naked around relative strangers and sometimes forget how prudish America is.”

I had been called a panty charmer, a rock god of sin, but never a prude. “Lesson number one, Melody, don’t challenge the bull unless you’re willing to take the horns.”

“Any other cliché metaphors you have up your sleeve? Because if not…” She gestured with her finger for me to face the opposite way.

My feet stuck to the carpet for a beat in disbelief at her spitfire personality. I'm not going to lie, it was sexy as hell.

Melody gave me a look of pure impatience. Grinning, my palms shot upward in front of me. “I’m going.”

Once my back faced her, the buzz of the hotel dimmed and the sound of each button popping open was magnified tenfold. My imagination filled in what I couldn’t see: a lacy white bra cupping her round supple breasts. My throat went dry as the desert as my pulse skipped. Lust surged straight to my dick and it twitched painfully against the zipper of my pants. I had to live on the tour bus with Melody for the next two months and if I knew what was good for me, I’d resist her at all costs.
She had the potential to ruin my image, yet nothing had ever tempted me more.

Her voice cut into my thoughts. “Ready?”

As she skipped past me, my eyes zeroed in on her ass and I nearly screamed at how unfair it was.

I discreetly adjusted myself and banished the image of Melody in anything but a nun’s habit to the back of my mind. Easier said than done.

LUKE, NOAH, ASH, AND
Matthew were sitting on the hot pink couch with their heads bent together, talking. Melody’s hips swung as she crossed the lobby and drew stares from the other men. I wanted to break their necks. She wasn’t theirs to ogle. My footsteps faltered at my unjustified possessiveness.

“Hey, I’m sorry I’m late,” Melody said to my bandmates, who were looking at her as if she had grown three heads.

They hadn’t expected her to be as arresting as she was either.

Luke spoke first. “No worries. I’m guessing you’re Melody?”

“Yes, and you’re Luke. I recognize your voice.”

He stuck out his hand and she shook it lightly. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said with a smile.

Melody pointed to Ash. “And you’re Ash, the lead guitar player.”

“Correct.”

She continued pointing out the rest of the members along with their titles, proving she had done her homework. Noah, our new bass player, inched to the edge of the couch and made a minuscule space for Melody to sit.

“Why don’t you take the chair?” I said to her, ignoring Luke and Matthew’s inquisitive stares.

Melody plopped herself in the armchair without protest, and I claimed the spot on the couch.

“Have you guys met before?” Matthew asked curiously.

With her head buried in her handbag, Melody’s voice came out muffled. “Briefly in the hall.”

Shooting a look over at me, Matthew arched a brow that said he would find out the rest later—except there wasn’t anything to tell.

She laid out a colorful array of pens on the table, grabbed one, and settled back into the chair with a notebook open on her lap.

An hour later, we had gone through the logistics, like what she would need from us, her process, and lastly, her promise to stay out of our way. Melody wanted this documentary to be as natural as a home movie, really show who Matthew Lee and his band were, hence why she didn’t have a film crew. The footage would be shot on a handheld camera manned by Melody herself. My respect for her went up a few notches by the end of the discussion, as did my attraction.

Luke clasped his hands together. “Awesome! I’m excited to hit the road and get started.”

Everybody murmured their agreement as they rose to standing positions. Luke, who was in a hurry to get back to Marlen, his wife, and his three kids, skidded out of the hotel like hounds were nipping at his heels.

“See you in three days!” he called over his shoulder.

Like a magnet, my feet were drawn toward Melody. “You impressed the hell out of us.”

“Would it be better if I played coy and said thank you?”

“Hell no.”

A wide grin lit up her face. “Good, because I’m not surprised. I have a tendency to impress when I’m talking about my work, probably because I love it.”

“Or because you’re incredibly talented.”

“How do you know?”

“A gut feeling.”

“You’re one of those types huh? Do you also believe in fate?”

“I did, once upon a time,” I said. “But then my supposed princess ran off with her yoga teacher.”

“Bitch,” Melody deadpanned.

Chuckling, I grabbed her suitcase and rolled it toward the elevator. My finger jabbed the up button. Melody opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it.

“What? Is something wrong?” I asked.

“It’s nothing. Do you always help women with their luggage?”

“I was raised in the South.”

“So what? You have better manners than most men?”

“Basically.”

The elevator doors opened and we stepped aside to let an old woman through with her old slobbery hound dog. Melody cooed at the animal and he responded by wiggling his short body in excitement. I would have done the same if I were the object of her affection.

The old woman tugged on the leash. “Come on Earl. We have a salon appointment in ten minutes.”

Melody watched him lumber off behind his owner, not seeming to notice the elevator doors closing. “I wish I could own a dog.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I travel too often.”

“Same, but I got one anyway.”

Hopefulness blazed in her eyes as if I were living proof of the dream she so badly wanted. “You did?”

“He’s a Great Dane named Bruno. We raised him from a pup to the hulking behemoth he is now.” At the mention of him, a sharp pain stabbed me in the solar plexus. “I miss him.”

“Did he pass?” Melody said in a hushed tone.

“My ex-wife stole him—literally. One day I came home from the supermarket to an empty house and a note on the counter.”

“She really is a bitch.”

“I like to think her heart was in the right place. With her, Bruno has a large backyard to run around in compared to my tiny strip of green space.”

Melody squeezed my palm. She didn’t need to speak; the sympathy in her eyes said everything. My gaze drifted to our interlocked fingers and I was struck by how tiny her hand seemed when engulfed by mine.

“Are you a witch or something?” I asked.

I detected a smile in her voice. “No. Why?”

“Because you somehow managed to make me spill my guts and I hardly know you.”

Dropping my hand, she put ample distance between us. “It’s the documentarian in me.”

“Ah.”

Melody re-punched the up button and, much to my dismay the doors slid open immediately. As she crossed the threshold into the elevator, I soaked her in like this would be last time we would see each other, when it was actually quite the opposite.

“Nice meeting you Sean Dallis.”

My full name had never sounded sexier than it did dripping from her bow-shaped lips. The doors began to glide closed and I craned my neck, catching a glimpse of her smile. “Nice meeting you Melody.”

I’M ENGAGED.

I’M ENGAGED.

My new mantra for surviving the storm of temptation otherwise known as Sean and avoiding ruining my upcoming marriage repeated in my head until I stepped out on the fourth floor and my cellphone buzzed in my pocket. Marco’s name flashed on the call screen as if he had a sixth sense about my wayward eye. Guilt churned in my stomach.

With trepidation, I hit the answer button. “Hey.”

“Melody!” His rich Spanish accent floated across the line. “How was your flight?”

“Good. Uneventful.”

“Are you at your sister’s yet?”

I glanced at the flowered wallpaper spanning the hallway. “Not yet. I just wrapped up the meeting and I’m about to jump in a cab.”

“Be careful. I read an article yesterday about rapists posing as cab drivers.”

“Where?”

“Buzzfeed.”

“They aren’t a reputable source for news.”

“You’re such a snob,” he teased. “Anyway, just be aware of your surroundings and don’t forget to send postcards. The government needs proof our relationship is genuine.”

His comment, while harmless, stung. “It is genuine.”

“Of course it is, but they can’t read our emotions.”

“Should we also record our phone calls?”

“Brilliant idea!” he said, missing the sarcasm in my voice. “Do you know how to do that?”

“I was joking.”

“Oh, well let’s look into it. Have fun.”

The line went dead. Due to his attention span being as bad as Dory’s from
Finding Nemo
, conversations with him always came to an abrupt end. It used to bother me, but now I just accepted it as one of his quirks.

I walked toward the exit stairs. My instinctual niceness had prevented me from correcting Sean when he’d assumed I was staying at The Standard Hotel, a premier destination for hipsters and partiers—though my sister’s house where I was actually staying wasn’t much different. Six years younger than me, she attended the University of Washington and lived in an old mansion with ten other people. Luckily, she had her own room with a really heavy wooden door that blocked out the racket; I needed all the rest I could get before Tuesday.

AFTER I HANDED THE DRIVER
his fare, my suitcase bumped noisily along the cobblestone pathway leading to the stately front porch. A dude sitting in a rocking chair nodded hello at me, mid bong hit.

Through a cloud of smoke, he said, “Who are you looking for?”

“Jane Carmichael.”

“She’s upstairs in Ben’s room. I wouldn’t interrupt, if you know what I mean.” His laugh turned into a hacking cough and he smacked at his chest. Once his lungs were clear, he lit another bowl.

The doorknob turned easily in my hand. Kids these days didn’t know the term
safety
. Once my sister was done doing whatever she was doing with Ben, we were going to have a talk about the importance of locks.

Located at the top of the sweeping staircase, my sister’s bedroom had minimal furniture: a desk, a chair, a bed, and a bookcase jammed to the hilt with various genres. As a child, she had read everything in sight, including the billboards lining highway 55 and the pill bottles that sat on my mom’s nightstand. The medications were the hardest. Words like
carboplatin
or
etoposide
would get tangled on her tongue, but our mom loved watching Jane sound out the syllables; it drove me batty.

I selected a worn paperback, flipped it over, and smiled:
Bloodbath on 5
th
Street
by Adam Ross. My soft-spoken sister had a fondness for cheesy horror novels. With nothing else to do, I kicked off my shoes and sat on Jane’s bed. My fingers flipped to the first page.
The knife plunged into my chest cavity.

Two chapters later, the excessive violence became tiresome. I set the novel aside and looked at my cellphone. Whoever this Ben character was, he had the stamina of a horse. When I wandered back into the hallway, a girl with an eyebrow ring passed me.

“Excuse me,” I said.

She turned around with a
yea, what do you want
look on her face.

“Do you know where Ben’s room is?”

A finger stacked with endless rings pointed north.

“Can you be more specific?”

Heaving a sigh, she crossed her arms and jutted her hip outward. “Are you a bill collector?”

“Do I look like a bill collector?”

“Kind of. You’re wearing slacks and a fancy-ass blouse.”

“I came from work. Have you heard of it? It’s this thing you do when you have to pay the bills and your mommy and daddy don’t support you anymore.”

Giving her a dose of her own attitude worked. “It’s the one with the Delta Phi sticker, on the left.”

“Thanks.”

The girl failed to mention that Ben had a whole collection of douchery on his door. Beer company stickers were mixed with lame slogans like
Ride ‘til you die
and other bullshit. My sister needed to aim higher.

My knuckles pounded relentlessly on the dark cherry-stained wood. I figured they wouldn’t be able to hear me otherwise. A young man yanked the door open and stood shirtless and bedraggled.

His eyes narrowed in on me. “Yea?”

“I’m Jane’s sister. Is she here?”

“Maybe.”

When I elbowed him aside, he grunted and called me a bitch under his breath. My sister was yanking on a pair of jeans as I entered the room.

Surprise dropped her mouth open. “You were supposed to come in on the twenty fifth.”

“It is the twenty fifth.”

“Oh.”

Fierce, smart Jane had a lot of positive attributes, but she acted like a ditzy blonde—not because she was one, but because she thought that was what boys wanted.

Her surprise gave way to annoyance. “Why didn’t you wait in my room?”

“I did for the past several minutes.”

“I wouldn’t have been much longer.”

Sliding a glance to Ben, I said, “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t have.”

At my implication, he muttered another
bitch
. Ben needed to add a few other curse words to his repertoire if he wanted anyone to take him seriously.

Jane marched to the doorway and whined. “God you’re so embarrassing.”

“I wouldn’t be doing my job as a big sis if I weren't.”

Happy to be rid of us, Ben slammed the door shut as soon as we were clear of his room. Jane collapsed melodramatically onto her bedspread, burying her face into a pillow.

“Are you using protection? Because there is no way in hell you’re ready for a child.”

She propped herself onto her elbows and gave me the stink eye. “I’m not stupid.”

“Yes or no Jane?”

“Yes.”

Relief coursed through my body at the news. “Thank god, because your little fuck buddy is not reproducing material.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Everything.”

“And your boyfriends are so awesome, like Lenny the mango seller in Thailand?”

“He had nice eyes.”

“So does Ben,” she countered.

Seeing there wasn’t a win in sight, I changed the subject to neutral ground. “How’s school?”

“Awesome. I’m taking children’s lit with Mr. Corgan this semester, and for our final project, we have to write a kid’s book.”

“Right up your alley.”

Jane scrambled to a cross-legged position, excitement alight in her expression. “Mine’s about a mouse who goes on an adventure with his best friend, a snail named Slime.”

“Sounds cute. Is there a moral to the story?”

“The world isn’t as big as it seems.”

“I like it.”

“Thanks!” she chirped.

She tied her thick auburn hair into a knot at the base of her neck. Jane had inherited my mom’s sweeping beauty that rivaled a 1940s film star like Rita Hayworth, while I had gotten my dad’s sinister looks, like an ex-con with a rap sheet longer than the Delta River—midnight black hair and matching eyes, slanted slightly at the corners. It had been a point of friction between us growing up, but after my mom passed, I was grateful that whenever the grief felt all-consuming, all I had to do was look at her to find my mom again.

Jane glanced inquisitively at my ring finger. “Did you and Marco end your engagement?”

“I had a meeting earlier so I put it in my pocket.”

“Are you going to put it back on?”

“Of course!” I sniffed. The diamond glittered in my palm as I freed it from my pocket. Try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to slip the band on my finger. “Do you think you can keep it safe for me?”

“With Mandy the klepto next door? Hell to the no.”

“Please. It’s better off here than on a tour bus.”

My sister frowned. “I feel like there is more to the story here.”

“Marco spent his entire life savings on this ring and I would be beside myself if anything happened to it.”

“Beside yourself, huh?”

“Yes,” I said pointedly.

“My bullshit meter is ringing off the hook so loudly it’s hurting my ears.”

“You should have been a drama major.”

“I would have been a wonderful actress. You, on the other hand, suck at hiding your emotions.”

Crumbling underneath her steady persistence, I sighed. “It’s just a case of pre-wedding jitters. Everyone gets them.”

“True, but you can still wear your ring on the road, unless…” She smirked. “Unless you want to appear available and live up your last two months as a single lady.”

“I don’t cheat; it’s part of my moral code.”

“It wouldn’t be cheating. You aren’t in the same zip code as Marco anymore
and
you haven’t said your vows yet.”

“Betrayal is betrayal no matter how you justify it.”

“Yea but I mean, come on…” Jane hopped off the bed and grabbed the latest edition of Cosmo. Flipping to the middle, she splayed the magazine in front of me. A flush snaked up my neck at the image of Matthew Lee flanked by his bandmates, every single one of them naked and hiding their junk behind their chosen instruments. “They are prime hunks of man meat.”

“Jesus,” I said breathily.

“Frankly, I’m partial to the lead singer, Matthew. He is yummylicious.”

I hardly noticed anyone else besides Sean. His well-defined arms were holding a snare drum while he stared into the camera with a devious grin that would make any woman get down on her knees. My throat suddenly went dry.

“If I had a take wild guess though, your type is the drummer,” Jane deducted.

Caught red handed, my eyes snapped up to hers as she flashed me a smug grin. “You’re wrong.” Swiping the magazine to the floor, I slid on my engagement ring as if it was a chastity belt.

Jane’s voice softened. “It’s okay for you to be attracted to another man besides Marco. It isn’t the end of the world.”