A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) (7 page)

“That. Was. Awesome,” Tank crowed as they filed off the stage. He grabbed Melody around the waist and swung her up in the air. “You are unflappable. Seriously ice cold. We surrender.”

“Good,” Melody sighed.

Tank froze and made a face. “Wait...you aren’t really on your period, are you?”

Grinning, Melody shrugged. “Like I keep saying, Tank—you’ll never know.”

The brunette was still touching herself, her fingers little more than a blur between her legs. Her fake tits hardly moved an inch despite all her exertions. Normally that sort of thing didn’t bother Dylan, but something felt different this time.

“I can’t believe you’re
the
Dylan from Dust and Bones,” she moaned, squirming around on the bed. She shot him a sultry look, her breath quickening. “You like this?”

“Hell yeah,” he said. “Keep going. It’s hot.”

But it wasn’t. It
should
have been, but lately, nothing seemed to be…
enough.

The brunette had gone down on him earlier. She’d really put some effort and enthusiasm into it, and to be fair, she’d been pretty talented. But in order to get off, he’d had to imagine red hair, bright green eyes, and an icy calm demeanor. It wasn’t fair. He was furious that Melody had managed to get herself so thoroughly entrenched in his head.

He had never wanted a woman this badly before—and he had
definitely
never wanted one who wasn’t interested. Because there
were
no women who weren’t interested; even when he had been a teenager with no fame or fortune to his name, the Oklahoma girls had lifted their skirts willingly. In the rare case that they hadn’t, he had never let it get to him, because he’d known there were plenty of fish in the sea.

“Oh God...I’ve wanted this for so long...a night with a rock star.”

Dylan was rather embarrassed that out of the dozen girls available backstage, he had picked the biggest star-fucker of the lot to bring back to the bus. Rip had gravitated toward a fellow tattoo addict (his usual type), and Tank had wrapped his arm around a petite blonde. Dylan had been half-afraid that he’d crush her, but the girl had looked thrilled by that prospect.

Then the brunette had approached Dylan, aggressive and sure about what she wanted. That was exactly what he liked in a woman. It was one of the many things he liked about Melody—unfortunately, she just happened to be aggressively sure that she
didn’t
want him.

He’d actually made an effort to look for her after the gig, but Big Mike had said that she’d gone out on her own. Then he’d asked Jesper if he knew where she’d gone, and he had told Dylan that she hadn’t wanted to “cramp anyone’s style.”

How could she be so cool about this sort of thing? It made him want to punch a wall.

The brunette gave a final gasping cry, then went limp beside him. Dylan noticed his jeans were still unbuttoned, and he surreptitiously buttoned them. Lesson one when dealing with the fame whores: never leave your valuables hanging out in the open. Snake had a story about a girl, his dick, a home piercing kit, and way too much cocaine. Dylan had no interest in trying to top that tale.

“That was amazing,” the brunette sighed, rolling her body toward Dylan’s. “
You’re
amazing.”

Those words should have been exactly what he wanted to hear. The girls had always stroked his ego, and he had always let them. Sure, he knew they were just there for the fame, but that had always been fine by him. Everyone got what they wanted: Dylan got a release, a way to come down from the high of a gig that didn’t involve the kind of hard drugs he tried to stay away from, and the girls got their fifteen minutes of bedroom stardom.

“Yeah, good times,” he said. It was a lie, and the fact that it was a lie infuriated him.

“It’s a crazy story I’m gonna tell people for years. ‘The night I fooled around with Dylan Bennett’...it’ll be great at parties.” She gave him a serious, measured look that seemed incongruous with the fake, naked breasts staring him in the face. “I have a suspicion you were thinking of someone else though; I think you even whispered her name to me. Who is she?”

Dylan sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“So
she
,” the girl said with inflection, “is a potential lover?”

“Not really. She doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

The girl nodded, seeming unsurprised. “That makes sense.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what. This mystery woman is probably smart, pragmatic, stable—everything that a wild rock star who’s constantly on the run would desire. Someone solid, someone to come home to. Probably the sort of thing you lacked in your childhood, too.”

Dylan narrowed his eyes at her. Where the hell was all of that coming from?

“But
if
she’s smart,” the brunette continued matter-of-factly, “then she’s obviously not going to mess around with someone like you, because even though you may desire stability, it’s really not in your nature to live that sort of life. Though it speaks very highly of you that you’re in love with a woman who knows better than to get involved with you.”

“Jesus! Since when does sex come with a side of psychobabble?” Dylan muttered.

“Call it what you like.”

“Where do you get this shit?” he asked.

“I’m a psych major,” she said.

“Alright, honey, it was a good time but you gotta go. You’ll make a good shrink though,” he said dazedly as he watched her get dressed. This was by far the weirdest encounter he’d ever had with a groupie—and one of them had set his car on fire a few years back.

“Thanks for the fun,” she said, leaning up to place a friendly kiss on his mouth. As she turned to go, she bumped into someone—a certain female someone.

Dylan wanted to crawl into a hole.

Melody smiled tightly. “Hey. Sorry. Crowded in here after a gig. You’re the third one I’ve run into. No offense.”

“None taken,” the groupie said brightly. “You were
amazing
out there tonight. Like, seriously my hero. If I wasn’t a zero on the Kinsey scale, I would have angled for someone else’s bed entirely.”

Melody laughed, a throaty sound that made Dylan’s gut clench with want. He hated it. “If I weren’t a Kinsey zero myself, I’d make a move right now.”

“I’m so buying your solo album when you put one out,” the brunette promised.

Dylan wondered if he’d been transported into a parallel reality where stuff like this actually happened.

“She’s really cute,” Melody said, after the psych major had gathered her belongings and left the bus. “Good choice, Bennett. The girl Rip was with scared me. Anyway, see you in the morning.”

She disappeared into her bunk before Dylan could remember how to string words together into sentences. Her total lack of jealousy—or even mild irritation—baffled him. He thought about the unexpected psychoanalysis he received. Was that really what was different about Melody? The fact that she was smart enough to know he was bad news? Jesus, was he
that
much of an asshole?

He needed a shower and he needed to think. He had to figure his shit out before he went completely insane.

Dylan slid out of bed as the bus started up. If they were heading out, then the little brunette must have been the last groupie on-board. He popped open the storage bin over his bunk, revealing a plain black leather case inside. That case was travel-worn; it had been dragged through every Podunk town in existence over the past decade-and-a half. He climbed back into his bunk, pulled his curtain securely closed, and settled down with his back against the wall, feeling the sway of the road as the bus rambled down the highway. Dylan took the guitar out of the case and reverently ran his fingers over the faded wood.

It was the first guitar he had bought with his own money. He had gotten it from a pawn shop in Nowheresville, Oklahoma, way back when the only things he’d had were dreams and a chip on his shoulder. Dylan strummed the acoustic guitar slowly, lovingly, trying to find a melody.
You already found one. She just doesn’t like you.

Give me some song lyrics or shut the fuck up, asshole inner voice.

His inner monologue, his creative muse, his logical brain: all were silent.

He tossed the guitar aside with more force than he’d intended, wincing as it bounced off the side of his bunk, the strings reverberating with a soft, low
twang
. Then, he reached into the case and pulled out a bottle of bourbon.

Even if he was doomed to the tortured life of a blocked songwriter, he could at least get a good night’s sleep.

**

Dylan’s mood had not improved after only a few hours of sleep and a killer hangover. In fact, it had significantly worsened. When he awoke, he went straight for the fridge, irritated to discover that his green machine health drink was buried behind bottles of high sugar smoothies and soft drinks.

Seriously, if all she drinks is this crap, how is her body so...ugh
.

The whole thing made him crazy. His skin felt tight, like something was constricting it, and he was dehydrated from his midnight bourbon binge. He popped open a bottle of water and drank half of it in one swallow. If he attempted the green machine first, it might come back up again.

The guys were already awake. Jesper, as usual, was reading on his tablet. Rip was heating something up in the microwave, and Tank was tuning a mandolin, of all things. Dylan decided not to ask.

Though he desperately wanted to, he forced himself not to think about what Melody was doing. But, as if summoned by the thought alone, he suddenly heard a muffled female voice cursing from the back of the bus. He didn’t want to look. He told himself not to look. Nothing good would come of looking.

He looked. Melody flung aside the curtain around her bunk and all but fell out of the bed, ass first. Boy did she look mad.

Boy did it turn him on.

No. Just ignore her. As she got to her feet, he made a concerted effort to put her out of his mind. He turned away and grabbed the green machine smoothie from the fridge. He twisted off the top, brought it to his mouth and—

Crash!
The bus hit a pothole, and Dylan found himself wearing a bright green drink for the second time in a month.

“Shit,” he muttered, staring around for something to clean up the mess.

“My sentiments exactly,” Melody said from right behind him. He hadn’t realized she’d gotten so close. He glanced back at her and forced himself not to laugh. Half the spilled smoothie was decorating the front of her white ribbed tank top.

“You had that coming,” he teased, thinking back to the first night they met.

She was in no mood to banter. “Ew, how can you stand this crap?” she muttered, gagging a little. “It smells like grass and Brussels sprouts.”

“It probably is,” Dylan said. “Wheat grass is good for you.”

“I don’t care,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “I’m not out here to discuss your dietary habits. I’m calling a band meeting—”

“You’re not a member of the band,” Rip reminded her.

“For the remainder of this tour I am,” she said. “But if you want to split hairs, let’s not call it a band meeting. Let’s call it a Come to Jesus for the band.”

“I object to the religious undertones of this conversation,” Tank said.

“No you don’t,” Jesper said, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah,” Tank agreed. “I object because it sounds boring.”

“Okay, that’s it,” she declared. Dylan realized that she actually
was
mad, though she was acting almost impossibly calm. “I have put up with dirty boy messes, a shower of tampons, and all the silicone-enhanced Mensa candidates that wander the bus in the evening eating my pudding cups. But John Lennon as my witness, I will not abide this offense another night.” 

“If you want them to understand you, use smaller words,” Jesper advised with a smirk, nodding his head towards Dylan, Tank, and Rip.

“Stow the smirk, Smirky,” she told Jesper. “You’re part of the problem.”

Jesper looked surprised. “Me? What did I do?”

Melody slammed a piece of paper down on the round table. “It’s what you
didn’t
do. I had a conversation with my dad this morning.”

Dylan felt something dark and ugly fill his chest, threatening to choke him. He knew what was on that paper. Or rather, what
wasn’t
on that paper.

“Four songs,” she said, confirming his suspicion. “It’s been six months since your last deadline came and went, and you’ve collectively contributed
four
songs to your new album.”

“This isn’t really your problem,” Rip said. “Once Snake is back—”

“Once Snake is back, I’ll be exactly what I’ve always been: a huge fan of this band who continues to be disappointed every time you fail to put out new music,” she said.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Dylan snapped. He whipped off his damp, sticky shirt and threw it in the garbage chute. “You know what, don’t even answer that, because I think I already know. You’re Daddy’s little spy, aren’t you?” 

Melody pursed her lips. “He asked me how the writing was going. I asked him why he was asking. He told me it wasn’t any of my business. I told him he made it my business by asking. He spilled like a glass of milk.”

“Terrible analogy,” Tank commented.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Dylan muttered, rubbing his temples. Already he wanted a drink, and he hadn’t even been awake for twenty minutes.

“I’m sorry, what did you say to me?” Melody asked, her voice deceptively sweet.

“I said, you’re a fucking pain in the ass,” Dylan repeated, this time louder and with more emphasis on the word ‘ass.’

“That’s rich, coming from you,” she scoffed. “Do you have any idea how close you are to ruining your own life?”

“What the fuck would you know about my life?” he challenged, both his voice and his temper rising quickly. “I’ve got a lot of shit to deal with right now, I’m sorry I didn’t have a caring dad to oversee my perfect childhood.”

“Right, sorry. Keeping all that pussy straight when you’re too drunk to stand up after a gig is real hard work. Oh, and let’s not forget all the
not
writing songs. That takes a lot out of a guy. And leave my father out of this. Everyone’s got family issues, you’ve got yours, I’ve got mine, they don’t give you a carte blanche to be a douchebag.”