"Hey," she said.
"Let's head into town," he suggested. "I saw a bar when we were driving in. Let's … let's go see if it's any good."
She cocked her head to the side. "I'm sorry?"
"Maybe we can get something to eat, too."
"But...I bought groceries," she said, holding up the bag in her hand.
Dylan took the bag and hung it on the knob of the front door. Then he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the car.
"You're freaking me out a little," she warned him.
He let go of her hand and looked at her. He was wearing the most vulnerable expression she had ever seen on his face. "I can't be here anymore," he whispered.
"Okay. Then we'll go," she agreed at once, without thinking.
Melody got in the driver's seat again. Dylan didn't even fight her on it. Normally she would have appreciated that, because he really was a terrible driver, but right now it made her nervous. His silence terrified her.
"Turn left here," he said, indicating the main road they'd taken on their way to his father's house. She remembered the little shack of a bar they'd passed. It had looked like somewhere bikers went to hang out.
"So...what happened back there while I was gone?" she asked quietly.
He let out a bitter laugh, a mirthless, unsteady warble. "I learned something I already knew," he answered cryptically.
A feeling of unease simmered in her belly. "That sounds ominous," she said, a poor attempt at humor.
Dylan didn't respond. The sharp cut of his jaw taunted her with a day's worth of stubble. She wanted him to look at her, to talk to her, to tell her what had gone so terribly wrong, so that she could begin to make it right. But he didn't. He stared straight ahead, ignoring her comment, and seemingly, her presence.
Soon enough, they reached the bar. Melody pulled the rental car up onto the strip of dirt that served as a parking area. True to her memory, it was little more than a shack in the middle of nowhere. A flickering neon sign proclaimed the establishment was "OPE"; she figured that meant the two of them were welcome, give or take an "N."
Again, she started to speak, but Dylan had already thrown his door open. He jumped out before she'd even brought the car to a full stop. She threw it into park, shut off the ignition and hurried after him, now genuinely worried about his mental state.
Inside it was dark, poorly lit. There were only a few older men and women seated at the bar, but that wasn't surprising, as it was before noon on a Thursday. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, and she spotted Dylan at the end of the bar, tossing back a shot of amber liquid. The sight caused her heart to clench. He wasn't an alcoholic-not really-but his behavior while drunk left much to be desired. He became unstable when he'd had even a little too much, and she couldn't help but begin to feel panic rising within her. He signaled the bartender for another, and had downed it by the time she reached his side.
"Dylan, what happened?" she whispered, placing her hand on his forearm.
He shook his head and moved to the ancient looking jukebox in the corner. He started flipping through songs. Melody wasn't sure he even knew what he was looking for; he was just going through the motions to have something to do, something to distract himself. He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. He plugged whatever he had into the coin slot and hit a few buttons.
The music started playing right away. Bob Dylan. She recognized it as one of her favorites: Shelter From the Storm. Dylan's back was tense, his white T-shirt pulled taut against his shoulder blades. Melody reached out and tentatively laid her hand between them comfortingly. He shuddered beneath her touch. She wanted so desperately to help him, to shelter him from the storm that was brewing inside him, to keep him safe from whatever it was they'd found in this small, dusty town in Oklahoma.
He turned toward her and cupped her cheeks in his hands. She saw something dark and dangerous stir in his eyes. Her emotions were all over the place; her desire to help him was now warring with her instinct to protect herself. Whatever he was going through, he was on the edge of self-destruction, and Melody knew she was going to get caught in the crossover.
She opened her mouth, still struggling to find the right words to take away the pain he was obviously feeling, but his mouth stopped whatever words she'd have given him as it smothered hers. He leaned into her, his kisses long and wet and drugging. She fisted her fingers in his hair, and held on tightly as he backed her into a very dark corner of the bar. His hands were greedy and possessive as he clutched at her back through the thin cotton of her shirt. It obviously wasn't enough for him. He slid his hands beneath the fabric to roughly caress her bare skin. She moaned against his lips as his tongue wound its way around hers.
Then his hands dropped down and began working on the button of her jeans. She froze, the lusty haze clearing slightly.
"No, Dylan, we can't," she whispered, though her voice didn't sound very convincing, even to her own ears. "We're not alone," she added for both their sakes.
"I need you," he growled. "I need to stop thinking about … everything but you."
He pulled her by the waist further down the back hall, until he found an alcove that was suitably hidden from the rest of the bar. Obviously if someone walked by they would be seen, but that didn't seem like such a huge risk anymore; his mouth was hot against her neck, and his fingers had finally gotten her jeans undone. His hand plunged beneath the waist of her underwear to play with her clit.
"Oh God," she moaned quietly. He swallowed that sound, too, nibbling gently at her mouth as his fingers stroked and circled in just the right way.
The bastard knew the second he'd won, the instant she was too far gone to protest, because he removed his hand and quickly started tugging her jeans further down her hips. She would have helped him get them all the way off, too, if it hadn't been for the low whistle that suddenly came from somewhere over Dylan's shoulder.
"Might wanna take her in the bathroom. Unless you like the idea of someone watching." It was one of the old men from the bar. He chuckled as he passed by them, heading for the restrooms at the end of the hall.
"I can't believe that just happened," Melody muttered, moving to tug her jeans back up and refasten her pants.
Dylan gave another mirthless laugh, shaking his head. "I should have expected it. Goddamn universe can't give me one fucking thing … "
"Oh yes, you must be very disgruntled that you were caught with my pants down," Melody hissed.
"Hey, it's okay," Dylan soothed, covering her hands with his own. "We can just go out to the car."
Melody glared at him. "I'm not fucking you in the car, Dylan." It wasn't that she necessarily objected to the idea, it was how thoughtlessly he had propositioned her. Dylan wasn't acting like himself. Or, maybe the problem was that he was acting too much like his old self. The one she hadn't been willing to risk her body or her heart on because he had seemed like such a bad bet.
"Are you kidding me?" he scoffed. "You fucked me on top of a piano in a hotel bar."
"That was different," she mumbled. It was different. You were different. Back then I couldn't imagine not being with you another second. Right now I barely want to look at you.
"We were alone a second ago, too," he argued.
She shook her head. "This isn't something we're debating. We got carried away. It's done. Let's just get out of here."
Dylan stiffened. "I don't want to get out of here. I like it here."
Melody narrowed her eyes at him. "You were ready to leave when sex in the car was on the table."
"And now that it isn't, I'd rather stay," he retorted.
"Why are you being such an ass?" she snapped. "I get that you're going through something, but if you refuse to tell me what it is, I can't help you."
"I don't need your fucking help," he muttered. "I need a bottle of Scotch and someone to suck my dick until I can't think anymore."
Someone. The word was like a punch to Melody's gut. That was why it had felt so wrong earlier. The connection they'd always had had vanished. It had been absent as he had stroked and kissed and seduced her into that little alcove.
"I want to comfort you," she said quietly, looking him in the eye so he would be sure to understand her. "But you don't get to use me."
"Jesus, I'm not fucking using you," he growled. "If you don't want to have sex, then we won't have sex. But I'm not up for having the touchy-feely daytime talk show chat you want from me."
"Fine," she said. "Drink yourself into a coma. I'll wait in the car until you're done."