A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones)(15)

"I don't know," she said slowly. "Ian's not really getting the hits he once had-"

"He's been quiet because he's been screwing around with a supermodel,"  Melody interrupted. "You can break this story-and what I have to give  you is much juicier than another tired piece about Dylan Bennett being  drunk."

Chelsea pursed her lips, considering. "It's big?"

Melody let out the breath she'd been holding. "Chelsea, it's fucking huge."





5


A drum-playing gnome had taken up residence inside Dylan's head, and he  was about to projectile vomit all over the little bastard. He opened one  eye, squinting at the sliver of light that had managed to sneak through  the curtains around his bed; he may as well have been staring directly  into the sun. The world was spinning around him. He wished he could just  lie there until it stopped.

"Rise and shine." Tank's voice boomed from the hallway, and he flung the  curtain open wide. His cheerful face stared down at Dylan.

"Go away," Dylan moaned.

"No can do," Tank said. "It's my job to get you up and at 'em."

"And I'm supposed to help," Rip added, his face joining Tank's.

"Make it stop," Dylan moaned.

"We've all been there," Rip said. "Drink this."

"Who made it?" Dylan asked, wary. The gnome had given up on the drum  set, and was now pounding directly on the inside of Dylan's skull.

"Jesper," Rip said with an apologetic tone.

"Why didn't Tank make it?" Dylan whined. They all knew Tank's hangover  cures went down the easiest. Jesper's worked faster, but they tasted  like turpentine with a Tabasco kicker.

"Because sound check is in an hour," Tank said. "You don't have time to gently ease back into this world."

It took a moment for the words to make sense in Dylan's brain. "You mean tomorrow's sound check?" he asked slowly. "Seattle?"

"Seattle," Rip said, speaking slowly, as if Dylan had a traumatic brain  injury. And it kind of feels like I do. "You, ah...you went on quite a  bender."

Dylan scrubbed his face. The little gnome clashed a pair of cymbals together. "Why did I..."

Then everything came back in a rush. The sudden, stabbing pain in his ribcage put the gnome's attempts at torture to shame.

Emma.

Tears pricked at Dylan's vision and he blinked them back frantically. He  remembered the phone call, the tears in his sister's voice, the way  she'd begged him not to cut the tour short to come, not yet, because  cutting the tour short meant the worst was upon them, and she wasn't  prepared for the worst, not really. Neither was Dylan. He'd never been  good with reality; he'd just gotten better at avoiding it.

"Shit," Dylan said, realization washing over him. "The interview."

Jesper popped his head inside the bunk. Dylan now had three band mates  staring down at him, making him feel like some kind of animal on exhibit  at the zoo.

"You owe Melody a new car," Jesper informed him.

"What? Why?" Dylan tried to remember why on earth he would possibly owe Melody a car, but it was all a blank.

"Because she saved your ass," Jesper said.         

     



 

"Our collective ass," Tank added.

"If you go down, so do the rest of us," Rip agreed.

"Why was I going down?" Dylan asked.

"Dude," Rip said gravely.

"Dude," Tank repeated with more emphasis. "You had a full-blown nuclear rock star meltdown."

Dylan automatically checked the top of his head.

"Relax, Samson," Rip snickered. "You didn't go Britney Spears. Your beautiful mane is safe."

Jesper glared at him. "But you did set your old guitar on fire."

Gasping, Dylan looked around, as if the guitar in question would  magically appear. "Is it...gone?" Even the thought of that hit him like a  punch to the solar plexus. Why would he set the one material possession  he cherished above all others on fire?

"Melody saved it," Jesper said. "She burned her hand in the process."

"Shit," Dylan muttered. She was a bass player. Her hands needed to be in  top condition, and she'd had to put herself at risk because he was a  drunken idiot.

"That's not why you owe her, though," Tank said. "I mean, it's a reason, but it's not the reason."

"What else did I do?" Dylan asked, feeling dread flooding through his  stomach. They all knew how he felt about that guitar. If there was  something he should be more concerned with, Dylan was terrified to know  what it was.

"You broke a window on the bus," Tank said. "We have to spend a few  extra hours in Seattle getting it replaced, which means we'll have less  than an hour to do sound check in Boise."

"Is that why my elbow hurts like hell?"

Tank nodded.

Well, that didn't sound too bad. They had the set list for the show  pretty refined, and though Dylan was reluctant to admit it, Melody added  something extra to every damn song and knew all of them like the back  of her hand.

Unfortunately, Tank wasn't finished.

"Oh, and you took off all your clothes. And the reporter got a picture.  Not exactly the kind of shot you want someone seeing in a blog,  especially if that someone is Hop."

Dylan winced. "So, uh...what exactly did Melody do to save my ass?" he  asked. She must have offered to sell the reporter her first born-and the  reporter had probably turned her down, because a naked rock star  setting fire to his favorite guitar was exactly the kind of tale that  printed money for the teller.

"You should read this," Jesper said quietly, handing Dylan his tablet.

The headline read: Girls Gone Wild Over Ian Humphries?

The words swam before Dylan's eyes-it was quite a lengthy article. He  blinked and shook his head to clear it, focusing on the larger sidebar  quotes instead:

"I was young and stupid, and he was older and bad for me. I almost lost myself in him."

"Serena decided she wanted him, and Serena always gets what she wants."

"I don't care that she stole Ian. I care that she stole my band."

"Hop already hired a publicist for us," Rip said. "Right after he tore her a new one."

"What?" Dylan asked. "Why?"

"Because she didn't tell him why she gave this interview, dumbass," Tank said. "I know you're hungover, but keep up, man."

Dylan took a huge swig of Jesper's awful turpentine remedy, shuddering  as it burned its way down his throat and into his belly. Of course, her  father knew that Melody wasn't the sort of trash-talking,  publicity-seeking person who would happily provide a juicy story like  this to the press. She had bartered the story to the reporter...so that  the reporter would give up the story of Dylan's drunken-asshole antics.

He sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So what  you're saying is, she risked her fucking playing hand to save my  guitar, aired her dirty laundry to save what little remains of the  band's image, and took a tongue lashing from her dad to save me?"

"In a nutshell," Tank concluded.

Dylan sighed. "I'm fucked."

**

After rushing to make it to sound check on time, the theater told them  that the fire department was insisting on a pre-concert walkthrough.  Since they had an extra hour to kill, and the bus window Dylan had  broken was still undergoing repairs, they had settled into the backstage  green room to kill time.

Rip was on his laptop, surfing the band's official website, logging into  the chat room anonymously to troll fans and haters alike. Tank was  using his free time to catch up on American Idol. Melody had politely  asked him to turn it down, and he had responded by cranking the volume  way up. Dylan had offered her a smile of commiseration, but she'd seemed  wary of the gesture. And he couldn't say that he blamed her for that.         

     



 

He'd been a massive prick from the moment she'd come onboard, and he'd  behaved like such a drunken jackass last night, that he wouldn't be  surprised if she was plotting to quit the band. He had given her zero  reasons to believe he's anything other than an asshole so he'd have to  prove himself to her. He would be less of an insensitive dick even if it  killed him.

He glanced down at his phone, where he had pulled up the blog article,  and started reading again. It was almost addictive, looking at Melody's  thoughts. He was studying her, figuring out what made her tick-but  unlike the women he'd studied in the past, he wasn't doing it with the  intent of getting in her pants. Well, he wasn't doing it for only that  intent.

As he read, the shadow of a song began materializing within him,  something sweet and sour with a killer melody...but it was just a  nebulous idea, and its details eluded him. The more he read, the more  Dylan found-much to his surprise-that he really wanted to know her. He  wanted to know Hop's daughter, the awesome bass player, the amazing  woman who had put herself on the line just to save a bunch of guys who'd  treated her like crap. He wanted to know why she put a splash of color  in her hair, and he wanted to know what the hell she was doing right  now.