A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones)(19)

"I own three," Dylan said.

"Not counting the '68 Mustang?" she said, eating a huge spoonful of coleslaw.

"Not counting the '68 Mustang," he agreed. "Come on, don't be so pissy.  What, do you bike everywhere? Is that how you're able to eat like Jabba  the Hutt without also turning into Jabba the Hutt?"

"I don't bike anywhere," she said. She ignored the Jabba the Hutt  reference, because they were already arguing about fossil fuels and she  didn't want to admit her devotion to all things Star Wars in addition to  being a Trekkie as well. "If you must know, I went electric. It's the  responsible thing to do."

"Right," he laughed. "You're so concerned with the environment, yet that  coleslaw you're huffing comes in a planet-killing Styrofoam container."

"I reuse them in my vegetable garden," she said.

He blinked. "You what in your what?"

Melody smiled, gesturing to the now empty container. "I use the  Styrofoam to grow seedlings, then, after transplanting, I cut them down  to use as dividers in the ground. Since it doesn't degrade-which is the  number one reason it's so terrible in our landfills-it's actually the  perfect thing to use to divide different plants, or to write names on or  something."

"So you're going to take that container-"

"I'm going to wash it first," she interrupted. "It's a breeding ground for bacteria, otherwise."

"We wouldn't want that," Dylan agreed, though she could tell he was  being a bit facetious. "Then you're going to use it to grow, what?  Tomatoes?"

"Potatoes, actually," she replied. "Styrofoam works better for root  vegetables. Vine plants need to grow up, so aluminum is best for them."  She took a loud sip of her Coke can. "Plus, tomatoes are a fruit."

"Potato, tomato," he said, smirking.

"Very cute," she said, irritated to realize she was telling the truth.  What was happening to her? It had been so easy to resist him before. He  had a self-destructive streak as long as the road they traveled, and  watching him totally unravel in front of that reporter should have been  enough to send her running for the hills. Instead, she kept picturing  the way he'd look without any clothes on...and was frightened by how  much she wanted to see him that way again under much, much different  circumstances.

"Why do you have a garden, anyway?" he asked. "If you're going to be a  touring musician, everything will rot on the vine before you get back to  it."

"I have a friend garden-sitting," she explained. "He'll make sure nothing rots."

"He will, will he?" Dylan asked. Did she detect a note of irritation in  his voice? "Does he-" Oh, yes; definitely irritation "-also take care of  other things for you while you're away?"

"He takes care of my dog," she said.

Dylan made another one of those pinched faces. "You have a dog?"

"What the hell's wrong with having a dog?" she snapped.

"Nothing," he hastened to assure her. "I've just always been more of a cat person."

She laughed. "No surprise there. Low-maintenance pets that require the  least amount of love, attention, and time-sounds right up your alley."

"As a matter of fact, it's got nothing to do with that. I happen to have  a soft spot for cats," he informed her, scowling. The vehemence in his  voice surprised her. "I had this great tuxedo cat when we first got to  L.A. I found her living in the alley behind my building and we  just … clicked. She was awesome."

"What happened to her?" Melody asked. She hated when people used the  word "was" when telling stories about a pet; it usually meant there was a  heartbreaking follow-up story.         

     



 

Now he definitely looked ashamed. "Um, there was a party and someone left the window open and she got out. I never found her."

"So she got eaten by coyotes," Melody surmised. She didn't care if she  sounded overly-harsh; he'd lost a poor, defenseless kitten because he'd  been drunk, high, or fornicating with groupies.

"Fuck, no." Dylan looked perturbed. "I'm sure she found another home, she was really sweet."

He was like a child who believed his beloved Rover had gone to live on a  farm where he'd have lots of other puppies to play with. Melody's brain  knew that she should find this kind of foolishness unattractive, but  her stupid heart decided that it was endearing-even sweet, which was a  concept she had never associated with Dylan before.

"I'm sure she did," Melody said soothingly.

"Oh, don't humor me," he sighed. "So, what kind of dog do you have,  anyway? One of those little terriers that you can carry in your purse?"

"Lennon's a mastiff," she told him. "He probably weighs more than you do."

"Christ, you named him Lennon? Could you be more predictably generic?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What was your cat's name?"

He looked away, scrubbing the back of his neck. "Keith Richards," he muttered.

"Ha," she said, pointing a finger at him. "And I'm predictably generic?"

"The cat was a female," he said. "It's unusual."

"That makes you predictably generic and a hypocrite," she crowed.

"Oh my God, shut up."

Melody jumped, shocked to discover that someone else was in the room  with them. She turned in her seat, and sure enough, leaning against the  kitchenette counter was Tank. He was drinking milk straight out of the  carton, his gaze darting back and forth between them as if he were  viewing a spectator sport. Melody glanced quickly at Dylan, who also  looked taken aback.

Tank laughed. "You really didn't hear me come in, did you?"

"It was a heated argument," she offered feebly.

"Yeah, a real nail biter," Rip said sarcastically, as he emerged from  his bunk and walked down the narrow hall towards them. "Your voices  carry, by the way."

"Sorry," Dylan said. "We'll try to keep it down."

"Just don't bicker so much," Rip said. "It's like listening to cats  fucking. Sounds awful, and they're enjoying it a hell of a lot more than  you are."

"Thanks for the visual," Melody said dryly. "I'm sure it will cure us of any and all desire to bicker in the future."

"Definitely," Dylan agreed. He glanced back over at her and shot her a  wink. Melody smiled back. She was surprised by how easy their  conversation had felt. Their back-and-forth had been natural, relaxed,  and...well, there wasn't any other word for it: happy.

Talking with Dylan Bennett made her happy. Melody didn't quite understand that strange new development but she knew it was true.

**

Day one of "no bickering" lasted until lunchtime. They had stopped for a  meal, and Jesper had gone off to pick up some food at a local,  hole-in-the-wall diner. Tank spotted a used record store nearby, and  Melody noticed they sold DVDs. They decided to buy a movie to watch on  the road. That was when things got heated again.

"No," Melody said. "I'm sorry, but no."

"You can't just say ‘no'," Dylan scoffed. "This is a discussion. We're having a discussion."

"Not when you say stupid shit like that we aren't," she said.

"You're only taking your position because you're a girl. Daniel Craig is  not the best Bond," he snapped. "Maybe, in another decade-"

"Maybe when he starts acting like an arrogant jerk like your precious  Sean Connery you'll like him better," she retorted, crossing her arms  and offering him a wicked grin. "Then you'd be able to identify with him  more."

Dylan scowled and crossed his arms right back at her. "The way Connery  acts in real life has nothing to do with his performance as James Bond."

"You would say that," she muttered.

"Will you two please just shut up," Jesper said, gesturing at them with  the rapidly cooling bags of takeout he held. "Split the difference on  Pierce Brosnan and call it good."

"Pierce Brosnan," Dylan and Melody scoffed in unison.

Jesper glared at them. "I hate you both."

"Got one," Rip said, holding up the DVD he'd just purchased. The Hot Chick.         

     



 

Melody and Dylan both groaned.

Tank looked at them sadly. "Your warfare has cost us all dearly."

Lunch was delicious. Melody took special delight in grossing out Dylan  with her deep fried pickles -he eventually tried one and pronounced they  had a "fried sour vomit flavor"-, and teasing him about his arugula and  walnut salad.

When they finished eating, Dylan grabbed his guitar, which fortunately  seemed to have survived his Jimi Hendrix experiment without any damage  to its sound. He retreated to a far corner of the bus to write. Rip  assured her it was just "part of his emo process" and that they should  leave him to it. Jesper retired to his bunk to call his girlfriend-all  attempts Melody had made to learn more about her had been effectively  stonewalled-and Rip and Tank decided to play a video game.  Unfortunately, this left Melody alone with her thoughts.