He jerked, suddenly registering the cold spray of water pounding down upon him. He leaned forward and turned off the tap, his whole body shaking. His teeth were chattering. Funny, he'd always thought that was just a silly expression, something that didn't actually happen in real life.
"Your skin is like ice," Melody whispered, wrapping towels around him. "What the hell were you thinking? It's been half an hour, were you under the cold water this whole time?"
Dylan wasn't sure; the water had been warm at first, but he hadn't been able to feel it. He remembered wanting to feel something. He'd wanted to make himself cry, and when scalding himself hadn't done the trick for him, he'd turned the hot water off entirely.
"What's wrong with me?" he asked as Melody dried his skin vigorously, trying to cause enough friction to warm him up again.
"You're an idiot," she said easily, sniffling a little, still crying.
"I should be crying," he insisted. "I loved that little girl more than I've ever loved anyone in my entire life. I should be weeping for her."
"Baby," Melody whispered, brushing the hair back from his forehead before cradling his jaw in her hands. "You are crying."
Her lips confirmed her words. They pressed soft, sweet kisses against his cheeks and the corners of his eyes before she brought them to his mouth. He tasted the salt of her tears and his, the mixture a bittersweet relief. She pulled back slightly to continue rubbing at his skin with the towels-but he didn't need her to dry him, he needed her to consume him. The cotton pants she wore felt soft against his hands as he ran them up and down her thighs, but he didn't want soft cotton, he wanted her skin. He pulled roughly on the fabric, and the pants fell to the ground.
Dylan pressed his mouth to her stomach, spreading wet, biting kisses over her hips and the lower part of her abdomen. He slid her underwear down in increments, and she helped him, kicking the scrap of black lace to the ground as she shimmied out of her top. She was as naked as he was by the time she crawled onto his lap, straddling him on the guest bed. A sob caught in his throat as he remembered what he was trying so desperately to forget, and she swallowed it, her mouth open and desperate against his.
He found his way inside her, seeking warmth and comfort. She wrapped her limbs around him, crushing their chests together. Dylan buried his face in her neck, inhaled the smell of sex and oranges, and felt a sense of peace settle over him, shielding him from the agony that was threatening to destroy him. The crook of her neck was wet with his tears, and just the simple fact that he was capable of crying them lit a spark of hope inside his chest. Maybe there was some good left in him, after all.
He rocked against her, wanting their connection to last forever. She felt so inhumanly perfect, in a way that nothing and no one else ever could. He clutched at her hips, her breasts, the curve of her ass. He bit at her shoulder, sucked on her nipple, kissed the perfect point of her chin. He held her tightly as he came, and pressed his ear to her chest as she followed. The rhythm of her breath was like a soundtrack for his fevered thoughts.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
The words still wouldn't come out loud, but he felt them with every beat of his caged, wounded heart.
10
"Dylan. It's time."
Dylan's eyes slowly opened. The glare of the greenroom lights made him wince. He felt hung-over, but he hadn't had so much as a drop of alcohol since before Emma's death. He had wanted to, but the memory of how he'd behaved the last time he'd been drunk, what that had cost Melody, and the idea of having to face Hop after, had all been enough to keep him sober.
"You're on in five," Big Mike said. The first show since Emma's death, after they had to cancel several because Dylan couldn't do it. The old roadie bore the same sympathetic, pitying expression Dylan had grown accustomed to seeing on everyone's faces over the past two weeks. It was strange how quickly people forgot how to talk to him. They spoke quietly, as if they thought a loud noise might set him off, and they asked him stupid, vague questions like, "How are you today?"
As if they didn't already know the answer.
Jesper had done what he could to help, but not even Dylan's best friend had been able to bring him back from the dark depths of despair. Every time Jesper talked to him, trying to soothe his nerves and make things better, it only served to make the pain fresh in Dylan's mind again. Hop had reached out a few times, asking if he needed anything, or if he wanted to talk. But Dylan didn't want to talk. He wanted to forget.
The people around him were trying to move on, but Dylan felt stuck. Even Grace was keeping her momentum; she had gone to stay with a friend for a few weeks to give herself a mini vacation while she figured out what she was going to do next. His bandmates, though they'd all been supportive, had their own ways of dealing with their grief-and no matter how much they have loved Emma, they hadn't loved her as much as Dylan had. He had tried, briefly, to pretend she wasn't dead. But it was impossible. The knowledge was always there, looming over him.
They had played four shows over the course of the last two weeks, through a fog of grief and blind professionalism. Dylan had always assumed a persona on stage-it was all part of the act-but he really deserved an Oscar for those four shows. Hell, they all did. They had put on brave faces for the world, and while they were caught up in the rush of a performance, it was easy to forget what had happened.
But when the stage lights came down and they were once again on the bus, they allowed the crushing depression to overtake them again. It was affecting everyone differently. Rip had been surlier than usual lately, and had started taking it out on Melody. Dylan had wanted to say something to him more than once, but Melody had forbidden him. She claimed she could handle Rip herself.
It didn't help that they all seemed to have silently agreed to abstain from simple pleasures, in a kind of twisted tribute to Emma-as if they were refusing to even try to let themselves be happy. Tank no longer watched bad reality TV on his phone; Rip ignored his computer; Jesper had hardly spoken to his girlfriend; Melody barely picked at her food; and Dylan … well, he was a ghost of his former self. No alcohol and no sex. It was part of his grieving process, he supposed.
Melody had taken to crawling into his bunk at night. She curled her body around his, providing him comfort and warmth, but that was all. They hadn't had sex since that night in his sister's house. The night …
Dylan cut that thought off quickly. It was showtime, and he couldn't afford to be brooding, not now. Game face, Bennett.
"You ready?" Melody asked. The streak in her hair was pink again. Another small tribute to Emma. Everyone had incorporated pink into their wardrobe somehow. Melody had tied the pink lanyard Emma had made for him around the neck of his partially singed acoustic guitar. Tank had been wearing a pink shirt at every gig. Rip had bought a pair of pink drumsticks. Jesper wore a pink rubber bracelet on his wrist.
They had been honoring her silently these past two weeks, but it wasn't until that moment, two minutes ‘til showtime, with an arena of screaming fans in New Orleans waiting for them, that Dylan realized it was time they did more.
"I want to change the set list," he said.
"Not funny," Rip replied.
"I'm not joking," Dylan said. "We used to do it all the time when we were coming up, playing clubs. It kept us on our toes."
"Crowds love spontaneity," Jesper agreed.
"Are you doing this because … ?" Melody asked.
Dylan looked her in the eye. "Because … fuck, losing Emma was even worse than some of the shit I had to go through in my childhood. Life is this precious, fleeting thing. Because Emma's dead and we're alive, and that should matter. I think I've been in shock the last couple of weeks. I've done every show since she died because I had to. Tonight … I'm going to do this show because I want to. I want to do this for her. And I don't think I can unless we do it this way."
They all paused for a moment, considering Dylan's words. Then...
"Let's do this old school," Tank declared, nodding.
"Rock out with our cocks out," Rip agreed, with an edge to his voice that had been bothering Dylan lately. He looked at Melody and added insincerely, "No offense."
"None taken," she assured him, ignoring his tone, as had become her habit. "I can't wait to see it."
Jesper scrutinized Dylan with a sharp eye. "You're sure you can handle this?"
Dylan nodded. "I can handle anything for her." He was talking about Emma, but as if on instinct, his gaze moved to Melody for a moment before skittering awkwardly back to Jesper. His oldest friend smirked at him.