A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones)(18)

"He'll be thrilled about that," she snickered. "But thanks. I appreciate  you owning up to bad behavior. And that was some spectacularly bad  behavior you've been exhibiting, buster."

"I know," he groaned. "I don't know what the hell's wrong with me."

"I think I do." She didn't elaborate, and he didn't ask her to. He was  pretty sure he didn't want to know how accurately she had psychoanalyzed  his twisted mental state. He just knew he was done taking his problems  out on her.

"So," she continued, "I've never really seen you alone before. Do you go off by yourself like this a lot?"

"Only when I'm writing," Dylan confirmed. "The other guys-I love them,  but Tank can't sit still for five minutes, Rip starts trying to work a  three minute drum solo into every song, and Jesper wants everything to  come from some dark, emotional place. I wrote a song a couple of years  ago called Jukebox Jive, and he tried to work suicide into the chorus."

Melody laughed, as he'd hoped she would. "Well, what song doesn't become an instant radio hit when you work in suicide?"

"Not you, too," he groaned. "Anyway, if I'm not writing, I hang with the  guys and we do … you know. Guy stuff." Smoking. Drinking. Fucking. Not  always in that order.

"Mm-hmm," she murmured, as if she knew exactly what he hadn't said out  loud. Her fingers were still moving over the keys, and he suddenly  realized that his were moving in concert with hers. The sound coming  from the piano sounded suspiciously like …

"Are we writing a melody, Melody?" he whispered, with an over-exaggerated sense of shock that was only partly feigned.

"I think we are, Dylan," she stage-whispered.

"You know, I think there's a lot more to our antagonism than I  previously thought," Dylan continued. "I like you, Melody." He almost  couldn't believe it. It had been so long since he'd produced anything  even remotely in the neighborhood of good.

"Aw, thanks. I knew we could get along better. As for the tune, I think  it should go a little something like this," she corrected, adding a few  sharper notes to the tune.

"I need a muse like you," he said.

"I prefer collaborator," she informed him.

"You can be Grandmaster General if you keep my brain on task," he said,  laughing simply because for one stupid moment in time, he felt joyful.

"What are the words to this song?" she asked, after a few more minutes of riffing.

"I have no idea," he answered, but that didn't scare him like it would  have a week ago. This was a song he was learning as he went along. He  gave her a sidelong look-Melody was so beautiful sitting beside him,  playing with him, the lone stage light casting a shining halo upon her  red hair. He had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her; how he  wished he could lay her over this piano and find out if she was wearing  the purple lace underthings from her bag.

Dylan always acted on instinct, and this was no different. It felt  right. His hands stilled on the keys and he leaned closer to her, his  gaze on her full, pink lips-

Her fingers pressed against his mouth, halting his progress.

"Back it up there, Rock of Love," she said, looking somewhat annoyed.  "We need to brush up on some information that may have escaped your  memory due to alcohol poisoning."

"What information?" he asked, though he had the feeling he didn't want to know.         

     



 

"I am not easy," she said firmly.

"I know you-"aren't, he had been about to say, but her fingers silenced him before he could finish his thought.

"You like easy," she continued. "You like an easy lay and an easy  goodbye, because that way no one gets too invested, no one gets hurt,  and probably no one wants to take it any further."

"I'm not-" Silenced yet again by that finger of hers. At least her body  was touching his mouth in some small way-even that small connection  between them was enough to ignite an inferno of desire that spread  throughout his veins. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted  anything.

"Let me be clear," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "I'm not easy,  but I'm not difficult. I'm young, but I'm not stupid-at least, not  anymore. I'm only interested in finding something worth missing if I  lost it. I'm not into meaningless sex. I only want something that would  rip my heart out when it ends. So if you ever decide to try this again,"  she tapped his mouth with her fingertips, "you'd better mean it, and  mean it for the long haul. I'm not some random groupie you can lose  yourself in for just one night."

She slid off the bench and walked off the stage before he could find his  voice. The man he had been a few weeks ago would have gone after her,  would have charmed and seduced her, and worn her down to get what he  wanted. But somewhere between then and now, that man had started to  fade.

He let out a soft chuckle; he hardly recognized himself. What was it  about Melody that made him want the sort of permanence-and pain-that he  had always striven to avoid? Just the thought of a real relationship,  one that had consequences and responsibilities, one that might end and  break him, body, heart and soul, should have had him running for the  hills. So why did he gravitate to her like a moth to a flame?

Maybe the very reason he should have been afraid was the very reason he  was so drawn to her. When he looked into her eyes, he could see safety  and solidity...when he looked into her eyes, he realized that there were  some things that were worth the risk. Her last words were still ringing  in his head. Maybe he'd had enough easy in his life. Maybe he was ready  to try something that would rip his heart out when it ended.

He turned back to the piano and moved his hands over the keys gently, recreating the melody inspired by Melody.





6


The bus gently rocked back and forth on the road, but the soothing  motion failed to lull Melody to sleep. Despite the bus moving more  smoothly than she'd expected, it was difficult to acclimate to a  cramped, swaying bunk when you were used to a queen-sized bed and the  stillness of a house in the Hollywood Hills.

Seattle had gone better than she ever could have imagined. After the  pre-concert interview fiasco, she had feared the worst, wondering if she  had given up her most secret story for nothing. She had worried that  the band would crash and burn, despite her best efforts.

Then she had seen him on stage. Dylan had done exactly what her father  claimed all the greats could do: he'd turned it on, right there, in  front of her eyes. He was magnetic; the crowd had sat happily in the  palm of his hand, breathlessly awaiting his next note, his next word,  his next carefully constructed stare. The way he had helped cover for  her? Brilliance and bullshit wrapped up in the same package. He knew  what he was doing, and even though she knew he knew, she couldn't deny  finding him irresistible.

Sighing, Melody pushed open the curtain of her bunk and rolled out onto  the floor. It was too early to go to bed, and she was starting to get  claustrophobic. She was hungry, so she made her way toward the  kitchenette. Resisting Dylan Bennett worked up quite an appetite.

Speak of the devil.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, long legs propped up on a chair.  Jesper's tablet rested on the table in front of him, and he was staring  intently at the screen.

"Have you found the secret to the universe on that thing?" she asked,  opening the refrigerator. She let out a sigh of contentment when she saw  there was some cold fried chicken left. And a tub of coleslaw. Heaven.  She gathered up her bounty, grabbed a can of Coke, and carried it all to  the table.

Dylan wrinkled his nose at her late evening snack. "We ate dinner just a couple hours ago."

Melody shrugged. "I take my orders from the belly, not the clock."

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘how is she not fat,' but Melody chose to ignore him.

"I found something better than whatever secret the universe is keeping  to itself," he finally said aloud, acknowledging her earlier question.  He spun the tablet towards her so she could view the screen. "Feast your  eyes on this baby."         

     



 

Melody glanced down at a picture of a cherry-red vintage Mustang. "Is that a '67?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows in obvious appreciation. " It's a '68," he corrected her, "but nice eye, Hopkins."

"My dad's obsessed with old cars," she explained. "I always tell him  he's killing the planet with those gas guzzlers. At least you're just  looking at pictures."

Dylan frowned. "Actually, I bought this at an auction a few minutes ago.  I already called my guy to get it in shape for when the tour's done."

Melody's brow furrowed. "You have a guy?"

"A mechanic guy," Dylan clarified. "He does all my vintage cars."

"Meaning you have more than one planet-killer that you drive around?" she asked.