A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones)(42)

Impulsively, she picked up her phone and dialed Dylan's number. Again,  it went straight to voice mail. She wasn't even sure he would check his  messages any time soon.

"It's me." She didn't know what she wanted to say, so she rambled. "I am  so mad at you. You're scaring me so much. I need to know you're all  right. Maybe you hate me now, I don't know. Just please tell me you're  okay." There was a beep.

"The voice mailbox you are trying to reach is full." It hung up on her. Defeated, she dropped her phone onto the coffee table.

She stood there for a few moments in a stupor, until she was startled  back to reality by a knock at the door. She jumped, and nearly tripped  over her own feet in her haste to answer it. Disappointment flooded  through her when she yanked the door open and saw the person on the  other side. She took a calming breath and managed to force a smile for  José. "Hey you. How'd it go?"

"He was a perfect angel," José answered with an easy smile. "He only destroyed one of your tomato plants."

Nudging his way around Jose's leg was Lennon, her big beast of a baby.  Melody sank to her knees and threw her arms around her dog's massive  furry neck. He nuzzled into her, the way he had since he'd been a puppy.

"Do you mind if we caught up tomorrow?" Melody croaked. "It's been a  long tour. And, an even longer day. I think I just need some rest right  now."

"Of course not, sweetie," José said, patting her shoulder gently. "Go get some sleep. You deserve it."

Nodding gratefully, Melody shut the door behind José and dragged herself  to bed, Lennon bounding along beside her. She settled down, wrapping  herself in her blankets, as if trying to shield herself from the world.  Lennon lay next to her and gave her face a long lick, seemingly  concerned by her tears.         

     



 

"Mommy's sad," she confirmed, scratching the top of his head the way he liked. "I met someone."

He growled.

Laughing, Melody leaned over and gave him a kiss. "It's okay. You're  really going to like him." She had been so looking forward to  introducing Dylan to Lennon. They would have had so much fun together.  Now, she couldn't help but think that her two guys never got a chance to  know each other.

Melody embraced the cliché and cried herself to sleep.

**

The ringing phone woke her. Confused and groggy, Melody glanced at the  clock on her bedside table-it was two AM. For a moment, she didn't  recognize where she was...then everything came flooding back. She  tumbled out of bed and ran for her phone, which she had stupidly left on  the coffee table all the way in the living room. A number she didn't  recognize appeared on the caller I.D. screen, but she knew who it was.  It had to be him.

"Hello," she whispered, her voice gravelly from sleep.

"You've gotta stop calling me." His voice was slurred and hopeless and  bitter, but it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard because  he was alive.

"Never," she sobbed. "Where the hell are you?"

"It doesn't matter," he muttered.

"Of course it matters," she said. "I'm coming to get you."

"I don't want you here," he said. "I don't want you here because I want you here too much."

"Baby, that doesn't make any sense," she whispered.

"It does," he insisted. "You just don't get it because you think that you know me, but you don't."

"I do know you," she argued. "I knew you the first time you played the  piano with me. The first time we created something together. I knew you  then and I know you now."

"You know what you want me to be," he said stubbornly. "But you've seen  the truth of who I am. I don't know why you're still denying it."

"What truth?" she asked, grabbing her jeans from the floor and pulling them on.

"I'm no good for you," he said. "I'm just going to hurt you. I'm exactly like him."

"You are nothing like your father," she insisted. "The only thing you  have in common is a bad habit of crawling into a bottle when things get  tough."

"I have to do the right thing for once," he continued, as if he weren't listening to her. "I have to do right by you."

"Then tell me where you are," she begged desperately. "Let me come get  you and bring you back to the loft. You don't even have to talk to me or  look at me. I just need to know youre safe."

"I'm weak," he whispered. "If I see you, I'll be selfish. I won't be able to let you go."

"I don't want you to," she cried. "I want to make things better for  you." I love you. She almost said it, but she didn't think it would  matter to him right now. Besides, she wanted him sober (and preferably  in front of her) when she finally told him. "Please, baby, let me help  you."

"I want you to have an amazing life," he said quietly. "I want you to be happy."

"You make me happy," she whispered, tears rolling down her face.

"This isn't happy, sweetheart," he told her.

"Tell me where you are," she demanded again, ignoring his implication.  She was getting very tired of arguing with a maudlin drunk.

"No. It's better this way," he said. "I have to do this now because I  won't be able to do it later. Because you made me want more, Mel. You  made me believe I could have it. I almost hate you for it, but I cant."

She was sobbing now, her breath hitching and unsteady as the dawning realization of his resolve grew. "Dylan, please."

"Forget you ever heard my name," he said. "I'll never forget yours."

He hung up. Melody tried to call him back, but the line went straight to  a message, which informed her that the cellular customer had not yet  set up their voicemail box.

She battled a desire to sink into a ball of despair on the floor. Get it  together, Hopkins. Stop sniveling. That isn't going to accomplish  anything. She gathered her wits, along with the last tattered pieces of  her sanity, and forbid her tear ducts to shed another tear until she had  seen with her own eyes that Dylan was safe and sound. She copied the  number he'd called her from and forwarded it to Jesper, along with a  brief message: Do you know whose number this is?         

     



 

She impatiently waited for a response. When it came, she almost wished it hadn't.

That's Snake's cell phone. What the hell's going on, Mel?





13


The only good thing about losing the best thing that had ever happened to you was that things couldn't get much worse.

Had it really only been twenty-four hours since his world had come  crumbling down around Dylan? It felt like so much longer. Would the rest  of his life be like this? Would he just be counting down the seconds  until he was put out of his misery? All these years, he'd been watching  what he ate in order to stay healthy; now he wished he had eaten all  that junk food, gotten diabetes, grown obese, done something else that  would further shorten the remainder of his time on this godforsaken  planet.

He had been forced to surrender his bottle of Scotch when he had boarded  the plane. The TSA didn't make concessions about their liquid  requirements, not even for pouting rock stars. They had already given  him a pass, allowing him to fly when he was clearly inebriated.

While he had waited for takeoff, he'd immersed himself in playing  absently with his phone, just to have something to do with his hands  before he could close them around the neck of another bottle of alcohol.  As he had looked at the phone, he had suddenly realized what day it  was. He'd dialed a number he hadn't used in over a month.

Snake had answered on the first ring. "About goddamn time one of you  assholes picked up the phone," he'd said by way of greeting.

"Rip said you were spending your first week out with your folks," Dylan had slurred.

"Ha. Like anyone really believed that would last," Snake had scoffed.  "My dad and I got into a fistfight on my second night there. I'm back  home now. What's going on with you?"

Dylan had known, even then, that in his current state, he shouldn't be  around Snake. The two of them just encouraged each others' bad behavior.  But he had briefly explained what had happened and he had asked to come  visit anyway. And of course, Snake had willingly agreed.

When Dylan's plane landed, he exited the airport quickly and had found  his ride-Snake had arranged for a car to be waiting for him to pick him  up. He had faded in and out of consciousness as the car wound its way  through Los Angeles, eventually arriving at a rented house in Topanga  Canyon. This had been Snake's home for the past six months-if one could  call it a home. It had clearly been designed to be nothing more than a  party house, and there were very few personal belongings inside. The  overall décor screamed ‘temporary.'

"Stay as long as you want," Snake had said, after welcoming Dylan with a hard clap on the shoulder.