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

Melody laughed, a throaty sound that made Dylan's gut clench with want.  He hated it. "If I weren't a Kinsey zero myself, I'd make a move right  now."

"I'm so buying your solo album when you put one out," the brunette promised.

Dylan wondered if he'd been transported into a parallel reality where stuff like this actually happened.

"She's really cute," Melody said, after the psych major had gathered her  belongings and left the bus. "Good choice, Bennett. The girl Rip was  with scared me. Anyway, see you in the morning."

She disappeared into her bunk before Dylan could remember how to string  words together into sentences. Her total lack of jealousy-or even mild  irritation-baffled him. He thought about the unexpected psychoanalysis  he received. Was that really what was different about Melody? The fact  that she was smart enough to know he was bad news? Jesus, was he that  much of an asshole?

He needed a shower and he needed to think. He had to figure his shit out before he went completely insane.

Dylan slid out of bed as the bus started up. If they were heading out,  then the little brunette must have been the last groupie on-board. He  popped open the storage bin over his bunk, revealing a plain black  leather case inside. That case was travel-worn; it had been dragged  through every Podunk town in existence over the past decade-and-a half.  He climbed back into his bunk, pulled his curtain securely closed, and  settled down with his back against the wall, feeling the sway of the  road as the bus rambled down the highway. Dylan took the guitar out of  the case and reverently ran his fingers over the faded wood.

It was the first guitar he had bought with his own money. He had gotten  it from a pawn shop in Nowheresville, Oklahoma, way back when the only  things he'd had were dreams and a chip on his shoulder. Dylan strummed  the acoustic guitar slowly, lovingly, trying to find a melody. You  already found one. She just doesn't like you.

Give me some song lyrics or shut the fuck up, asshole inner voice.

His inner monologue, his creative muse, his logical brain: all were silent.

He tossed the guitar aside with more force than he'd intended, wincing  as it bounced off the side of his bunk, the strings reverberating with a  soft, low twang. Then, he reached into the case and pulled out a bottle  of bourbon.

Even if he was doomed to the tortured life of a blocked songwriter, he could at least get a good night's sleep.

**

Dylan's mood had not improved after only a few hours of sleep and a  killer hangover. In fact, it had significantly worsened. When he awoke,  he went straight for the fridge, irritated to discover that his green  machine health drink was buried behind bottles of high sugar smoothies  and soft drinks.

Seriously, if all she drinks is this crap, how is her body so...ugh.         

     



 

The whole thing made him crazy. His skin felt tight, like something was  constricting it, and he was dehydrated from his midnight bourbon binge.  He popped open a bottle of water and drank half of it in one swallow. If  he attempted the green machine first, it might come back up again.

The guys were already awake. Jesper, as usual, was reading on his  tablet. Rip was heating something up in the microwave, and Tank was  tuning a mandolin, of all things. Dylan decided not to ask.

Though he desperately wanted to, he forced himself not to think about  what Melody was doing. But, as if summoned by the thought alone, he  suddenly heard a muffled female voice cursing from the back of the bus.  He didn't want to look. He told himself not to look. Nothing good would  come of looking.

He looked. Melody flung aside the curtain around her bunk and all but fell out of the bed, ass first. Boy did she look mad.

Boy did it turn him on.

No. Just ignore her. As she got to her feet, he made a concerted effort  to put her out of his mind. He turned away and grabbed the green machine  smoothie from the fridge. He twisted off the top, brought it to his  mouth and-

Crash! The bus hit a pothole, and Dylan found himself wearing a bright green drink for the second time in a month.

"Shit," he muttered, staring around for something to clean up the mess.

"My sentiments exactly," Melody said from right behind him. He hadn't  realized she'd gotten so close. He glanced back at her and forced  himself not to laugh. Half the spilled smoothie was decorating the front  of her white ribbed tank top.

"You had that coming," he teased, thinking back to the first night they met.

She was in no mood to banter. "Ew, how can you stand this crap?" she  muttered, gagging a little. "It smells like grass and Brussels sprouts."

"It probably is," Dylan said. "Wheat grass is good for you."

"I don't care," she interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm not out here to  discuss your dietary habits. I'm calling a band meeting-"

"You're not a member of the band," Rip reminded her.

"For the remainder of this tour I am," she said. "But if you want to  split hairs, let's not call it a band meeting. Let's call it a Come to  Jesus for the band."

"I object to the religious undertones of this conversation," Tank said.

"No you don't," Jesper said, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah," Tank agreed. "I object because it sounds boring."

"Okay, that's it," she declared. Dylan realized that she actually was  mad, though she was acting almost impossibly calm. "I have put up with  dirty boy messes, a shower of tampons, and all the silicone-enhanced  Mensa candidates that wander the bus in the evening eating my pudding  cups. But John Lennon as my witness, I will not abide this offense  another night."

"If you want them to understand you, use smaller words," Jesper advised  with a smirk, nodding his head towards Dylan, Tank, and Rip.

"Stow the smirk, Smirky," she told Jesper. "You're part of the problem."

Jesper looked surprised. "Me? What did I do?"

Melody slammed a piece of paper down on the round table. "It's what you  didn't do. I had a conversation with my dad this morning."

Dylan felt something dark and ugly fill his chest, threatening to choke  him. He knew what was on that paper. Or rather, what wasn't on that  paper.

"Four songs," she said, confirming his suspicion. "It's been six months  since your last deadline came and went, and you've collectively  contributed four songs to your new album."

"This isn't really your problem," Rip said. "Once Snake is back-"

"Once Snake is back, I'll be exactly what I've always been: a huge fan  of this band who continues to be disappointed every time you fail to put  out new music," she said.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Dylan snapped. He whipped off his  damp, sticky shirt and threw it in the garbage chute. "You know what,  don't even answer that, because I think I already know. You're Daddy's  little spy, aren't you?"

Melody pursed her lips. "He asked me how the writing was going. I asked  him why he was asking. He told me it wasn't any of my business. I told  him he made it my business by asking. He spilled like a glass of milk."

"Terrible analogy," Tank commented.

"You're such a pain in the ass," Dylan muttered, rubbing his temples.  Already he wanted a drink, and he hadn't even been awake for twenty  minutes.         

     



 

"I'm sorry, what did you say to me?" Melody asked, her voice deceptively sweet.

"I said, you're a fucking pain in the ass," Dylan repeated, this time louder and with more emphasis on the word ‘ass.'

"That's rich, coming from you," she scoffed. "Do you have any idea how close you are to ruining your own life?"

"What the fuck would you know about my life?" he challenged, both his  voice and his temper rising quickly. "I've got a lot of shit to deal  with right now, I'm sorry I didn't have a caring dad to oversee my  perfect childhood."

"Right, sorry. Keeping all that pussy straight when you're too drunk to  stand up after a gig is real hard work. Oh, and let's not forget all the  not writing songs. That takes a lot out of a guy. And leave my father  out of this. Everyone's got family issues, you've got yours, I've got  mine, they don't give you a carte blanche to be a douchebag."

Dylan took a step forward, his eyes burning with fury. He knew he must  have looked frightening, but Melody didn't so much as flinch. She stood  her ground as he advanced upon her, until they were standing  nose-to-nose.

"What I do and don't do is none of your goddamn business," he hissed.  "For someone who isn't interested in me, you sure do keep real good  track of all my habits."

"I'm trying to help you, jackass," she hissed back.

"If you wanted to help me, you could crawl into my bunk, shut your mouth, and spread your-"

"Okay, that's enough," Jesper announced, coming over to physically  separate them. "Arguing isn't going to help the situation. You don't  want to say anything you'll regret."