A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones)(41)

Please be okay. Even if you hate me for dragging you into this emotional minefield, please, just be okay.

"Setting the bar awfully high, aren't you?" Hop noted.

"They're that good," she boasted. Go big or go home.

Hop sighed. "I'll level with you, Mel. I'm the head of the label, but I  still have people to answer to. I've made promises about this new album.  It looks like I can't manage my talent every time I have to push the  release date just because of some bullshit case of writer's block."

Melody tamped down on the instinctual desire to defend what Dylan had  been going through. Now that she understood how sharp the dangerous  corners of his mind were, she was amazed that he'd even been able to  keep writing for this long. Emma's illness had been too much for him,  and had likely been the final straw that had kept him from making all  those deadlines. The drinking and casual sex hadn't helped, but that had  been a symptom, not the disease itself.

"You won't have to push it again," she said.

"I need the final songs by next Friday," he added. "And why isn't Dylan  taking my calls? He could ignore me all he wanted if he would just email  me a goddamn track."

"I'll make sure he sends you my favorite song tonight," Melody promised.  Dylan had a demo of it on his laptop, which had remained on the tour  bus while the two of them had gone to Oklahoma. Rip could dig it out and  guess his password easily, she was sure. They'd be able to give her  father what he wanted, thus buying them enough time to find their AWOL  lead singer.

"Why can't he send all of them?" Hop insisted.

"You know how the artistic process is," she reminded him. "You don't  want to let it out there until it's perfect. The other tracks need some  fine-tuning. But I know he's proud of this one, and he'll be happy to  have you listen to it."         

     



 

"All right," Hop agreed. "I trust you, Mel. If you say I don't need to worry, I won't worry."

The words made a new guilt bloom within her, adding another heavy weight  in her abdomen. Melody had never been the kind of child who lied to her  father. They had always been allies, the two of them against the world.  Unfortunately, her recent predilection for emotionally stunted singers  seemed to be ruining her spotless record.

Then again, she had never lied to her father about any of the others,  like Ian, and the clowns who had come before him; she'd never even felt  the desire to. Dylan wasn't just the latest in a series of bad choices;  he was the first man she'd ever truly loved. He was the only one who  felt real to her; she had seen the true Dylan Bennett, a man who gave  his heart to stray cats and little girls, and who had, for a moment,  given his heart to her. He had given it wholly and unconditionally, in a  way no one else ever had. But his fear had swallowed him up again, and  now she feared that he was lost to her forever.

No. I won't lose him. I can't, not after all we've been through.

Her father would understand; he would forgive her for the lie. Assuming  he ever found out about it, which she was very much hoping he wouldn't.  All she had to do was track Dylan down and tie him to a piano until he  finished the rest of the album's songs. And they would find him, safe  and sound. She couldn't accept any other possibility.

"You don't need to worry about the songs," she assured him softly.

"And what about you?" he asked, after a long pause. "Do I need to worry about you?"

More than you know. "I'm fine, Dad." Melody thought about how she would  have answered his question a few hours ago. "I'm happy. It's real this  time, you know? He's real."

Goddamn tear ducts.

"I know he is," Hop admitted reluctantly. "He just has no idea who the  hell he really is. I never wanted you to love someone so lost. It can be  painful, ladybug."

"Hey Dad, I've gotta go," Melody said, because she feared that she was  going to start blubbering again. "I'll call you soon, I promise. I love  you."

She hung up before he could reply. Heaving a sigh, she gazed around-she  caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors in the back of the car  and saw that she had almost completely cried off her mascara, so she  began removing the remainder of it. Just as she finished scrubbing away  the last of it, the car pulled up outside Tank's loft. She thanked the  driver, slipped him a generous tip, and dragged her backpack upstairs.

Jesper opened the door for her. "Still nothing," he said, before she  could even ask the question. "We tried to intercept him at the airport,  but it's easy to lose someone at LAX. He won't answer Grace's calls,  either, and none of his usual contacts have heard anything from him.  He's good at avoiding people when he wants to."

"Don't I know it," she murmured dryly.

Melody walked inside the big, open space. She had only been here once  before, but oddly, it still felt like she was coming home. Pieces of the  band lived in this loft, their hearts and souls infused into every  corner. Tank's presence was most prominent-he was the only one out of  all the members of the band who had put down permanent roots. Before  she'd gotten to know him, she'd found that odd, but now it made perfect  sense to her. He was more ready for commitment than he knew.

"What is she doing here?" Rip snapped.

He sat behind the largest computer monitor Melody had ever seen. The glare on his face made her want to shrivel up and die.

"Lay off her," Jesper said firmly.

"Unbelievable," Rip said. "She's the reason all of this happened, and you're standing there, fucking coddling her."

"Last time I checked, Dylan was capable of making his own decisions,"  Jesper said. "They're not particularly good decisions, but they're his  nonetheless."

"He hasn't made a decision for himself since she got her pretty pink fingernails around his balls," Rip said flatly.

"Man, let it go," Tank said as he entered the room. "No one is interested in your one-man emo show."

"What the hell is wrong with you two?" Rip demanded. "She's not one of us for good."

"Maybe she should be," Jesper said quietly.

Rip shoved his chair back violently. "I knew it. I fucking knew it," he seethed, glaring between Jesper and Melody.

"This is not the time to have this particular discussion," she said hoarsely.         

     



 

"Right," Rip scoffed, "go ahead, play the fucking martyr-"

"Oh, shut up, Rip," Melody snapped. She was tired of taking his crap,  tired of playing nice, tired of being the cool girl who worried about  how everyone else was feeling. She stalked up to him and got right in  his face, no longer afraid of what he thought of her.

"I'm not the bad guy here," she reminded him. "I'm not the one who got  so fucked up that I drove a vehicle into a politician's house. I'm not  the one who pushed album deadlines back so far that you're one  missed-deadline away from being dropped from the record label. I didn't  show up and break up your band-you were barreling down that road all by  yourselves long before I got here. You can resent me. Hell, you can even  hate me. But you don't get to twist reality to suit your false  narrative, and you do not get to disrespect me for another second." Her  voice broke. "I love him, too."

Rip looked angry, shocked and ashamed, all at the same time. She didn't have the mental reserves to deal with any of it.

"Mel," Jesper said softly.

"I shouldn't have come here," she said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry.  I'll go back to my place. Please let me know if you find him."

"You don't have to go," Tank said quietly.

"I do. I need to check on my dog. He's probably destroyed José's  apartment by this time." She looked at Jesper. "By the way, you have to  break into Dylan's computer and send my father the demo of the new song  he finished. Send it from Dylan's email. No note, just attach it."

"You haven't told your dad what's going on?" Tank asked.

"He'll pull the plug on the album if he finds out Dylan's gone off the  reservation," Melody said. "If we don't find him before this gets out,  it's over."

She didn't allow herself to consider the possibility that they wouldn't find him.

**

Her apartment didn't feel like home anymore. The warm, cozy space now  felt alien, like someone else lived there. Tank's loft, even radiating  with Rip's hostility, had felt like the place where she truly belonged.

She dug through her backpack until she came up with one of Dylan's  artfully ripped white T-shirts. She'd stolen it from him on the tour,  figuring that even if they crashed and burned, she would have something  of his to keep with her forever. Creepy? Perhaps. But it gave her a  small bit of comfort, and now she was glad she'd done it.

Quickly stripping off her clothes, she pulled the shirt over her head.  The material was soft against her skin. She inhaled his scent on the  collar, which brought her joy and anguish at the same time.