A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones)(14)

"Oh, so much better," Dylan moaned. "Why do we wear clothes, anyway? They're just in the way."

His pants came off next. Melody didn't bother to conceal her admiration;  she was all too happy to ogle his fine form when there was no chance  he'd catch her in the act. Dylan Bennett might be a womanizing asshole,  but his body belonged in a museum where it could be appreciated by  drooling women for generations to come.

"This isn't really naked time," Rip said, casting a nervous glance in Chelsea's direction.

Melody didn't even try to avert her eyes. She would never be able to  look at him again without picturing his perfect ass and that-wasn't  alcohol supposed to diminish what was going on down there?

"You need to have clothes on right now, dude," Tank said, grabbing a  robe from the bathroom. He tried to drape it around Dylan's shoulders,  but their lead singer suddenly morphed into a toddler before their very  eyes.

"Don't want it," he whined. "I'm HOT. It's hot in here."

He stumbled over to the window above the kitchenette, fumbling with the  lock; all thumbs. Melody marveled that the man who couldn't open a  window could play guitar and piano like it was second nature.

"Hot," he muttered, and before anyone could stop him, he slammed his  elbow through the window, shattering the glass. Blood dripped down his  arm. He didn't seem to notice, sighing happily as the cold Seattle air  hit him in the face.

"I'll get the first aid kit," Jesper said, sounding resigned and annoyed.

Melody rushed over to Dylan, grabbing his wrist and forcing him to hold  it up. "Keep it there," she ordered, grabbing his discarded T-shirt from  the floor. She tied it around the cut to stop the bleeding.

"I'm tired," he said, looking into her eyes. His were cloudy and  unfocused, but there was deep pain swimming in their blue depths, the  kind of agony that swallowed you whole. Or maybe that was just the  bourbon.

Before she could decide which it was, Melody was distracted by Chelsea,  who was closing in on Dylan's injured right side, snapping pictures.

"This isn't a good time," Melody said pointedly, planting herself between Dylan and Chelsea.

"This is the perfect time," Chelsea said.

"The interview hadn't started yet," Rip said. "This is all off the record."

Chelsea laughed. "That's a good one. Off the record. There's no such thing in celebrity journalism."

"Maybe not at the rag blog you work for," Rip muttered.

"Be careful who you insult," Chelsea said.

"Look, no one means to insult you," Melody said, trying for a soothing  tone, even though all she really wanted to do was snatch Chelsea's phone  and smash it into her stupid cat glasses. "We're just under a lot of  stress right now. Live tours are a lot of work, and all the time spent  on the road makes you a little stir-crazy. The new album is coming  along, but as I'm sure you know, a lot of pressure exists when … " She  trailed off, searching for the right words.

"When your lead singer starts a small kitchen fire," Chelsea supplied calmly, raising her phone to snap another picture.

"Yes," Melody agreed, before she fully processed the words. "When your … "  Her eyes widened and she spun around. She saw Dylan standing over the  sink in the kitchenette. A bottle of lighter fluid sat to his right, and  a small flame flickered atop a guitar on his left.         

     



 

"I think this is going to work," Dylan muttered, swaying on the spot.

Melody didn't stop to think about her actions-all she knew was that the  instrument was beautiful, and the fire was still small, and therefore  containable. Acting on instinct, she grabbed an old blanket from the  back of one of the dining chairs, and immediately started smothering the  fire, hissing as she felt a flame sear the skin of her palm. The fire  went out as quickly as Dylan had apparently set it.

"Mel, stop, you're burning yourself," Jesper said, trying to pull her away.

"That's his favorite guitar," she said. She had seen the band perform on  a thousand YouTube clips, and whenever Dylan played one of their older  songs, he had that guitar. In fact, he'd had it the night she had met  him. She could only imagine what kind of dark place he must be in now to  have set it on fire. Drunk logic only excused so much; Dylan was  clearly drowning, and Melody wasn't sure how long he'd been under.

"No matter what I do," Dylan said. "Can't write worth a shit. And it's  all your fault. I could use a Purple Haze right about now. Or, at the  very least, a Little Wing."

Melody saw red. Had he really set his guitar on fire because he wanted  to write a song like Hendrix had? She recalled the video she'd seen ages  ago of Hendrix on stage at some festival, setting his guitar on fire  just because he could, because little boys liked nothing more than  finding new ways to burn down their lives...although usually, it wasn't  quite so literal. Her palm was still throbbing, but the pain almost felt  good. It focused her. This was the breaking point. The hazing and the  arguments she had taken in stride, but this, this utter waste of his  talent and his life, finally pushed her over the edge.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she yelled, stalking up to Dylan and  slapping him across the face. It was the second time she'd hit him, and  the first time she'd wanted to do it again immediately. "You don't light  objects on fire inside a bus."

He looked stunned for a moment. It seemed as if all the bourbon he'd  consumed was preventing him from processing what had just happened. Then  his eyes narrowed, darkening into that stormy blue he used to hypnotize  women from the stage. This time it wasn't calculated. He was angry,  too.

"Everything is what's wrong with me," Dylan yelled. "I've got all your  worried little looks coming at me all the time-yeah, Jesper, I see  those. You think you're being so fucking subtle, but I know what you're  thinking. I've got fucking Hop-Hop, who's never written anything more  complex than an email-telling me to get over it and put something down  on paper, like it's that fucking easy. Like I don't already know the  future of the band is on my shoulders. And you." He laughed, letting  loose the harsh, lost sound all drunks seemed to locate. "I've got you,  the girl with the bright green eyes, everywhere, in my face, on my  stage, messing up my goddamn thoughts."

"Oh, you're so put-upon," Melody seethed. "It's so terrible to be  surrounded by people who care about you, and to find a last-minute bass  player who miraculously knows all your songs and bails your ass out of  tour hell."

"I wish we had canceled the tour," Dylan muttered. "At least then I wouldn't have to put up with all this bullshit."

"You're done," Jesper said, shoving Dylan's chest hard enough to force him back a few feet. "Go sleep it off."

Dylan opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue and bluster with every  drunken bone in his body, but something in Jesper's expression stopped  him.

"Fine," he muttered, refusing to look directly at anyone. He turned on  his heel and stumbled back to his bunk, climbing inside and pulling the  curtains closed behind him.

"Hey. You need ointment on that," Tank said, holding out a tube to  Melody. She thanked him and slathered some on, all the while watching  Chelsea out of the corner of her eye. As soon as the first aid needs  were attended to, the reporter spoke.

"Would anyone like to give me quotes?" she wondered, breaking the silence.

"Please don't print this," Melody begged.

"This is the kind of copy that writes itself," Chelsea insisted.

"Come on," Rip said. "I know this was nuts, but … he can't be that big of a story."

"Anyone that drunk is that big of a story," Chelsea argued. "Add nudity,  destruction of property, and arson into the picture, and boom-slam  dunk."         

     



 

"He's been this drunk half a dozen times before," Tank pointed out.  "Hell, he and Snake crashed a Vespa into a carnival booth at that Make a  Wish event last month. That was a story. This is just a guy who fell  out of bed, opened a window the wrong way, lit up a Hendrix homage-in  his home city, I might add, so points for that-and did a very tame, very  unsexy strip show."

"Yeah, I'm not going to write it that way," Chelsea said. "I'm thinking, Rock Star Pyromaniac Tries to Kill Band in Bus Fire."

"I'll give you an exclusive about Serena," Melody said, the words  escaping her mouth before she'd consciously decided to utter them. "I'll  tell you why I really left."

Chelsea finally snickered. "Your old band is old news. A story about  Serena being a controlling, lying bitch is hardly groundbreaking. Pass."

"It was about Ian," Melody said in desperation. The bus went silent.  None of the guys knew her backstory yet. She'd wanted to keep it that  way, to put all the drama behind her and never look back-but this was an  emergency. She could see the gears turning inside Chelsea's head, and  though the reporter did her best to hide it, Melody caught a glint of  excitement in her beady little eyes.