A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones)(17)

"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."