A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) (17 page)

“Maybe you should write a song about it,” she suggested wryly.

“Ho-ho,” Snake said, sitting up straighter in genuine interest. “This motherfucker is writing songs again?”

“I wrote
one
,” Dylan said, glaring at her playfully.

“It’s solid, man,” Rip said. “You’re gonna love it.”

“Could use a little Snake magic,” Tank added.

“Well, bust me out of here and let’s make magic, boys,” Snake said, cracking his knuckles, the cigarette dangling between his lips.

Jesper smiled sadly. “You know we can’t, bro. It’s for your own good.”

“I’d rather be in jail,” Snake grumbled. He jerked his head in the direction of the main building. “They make us share our feelings. They keep asking me shit about my dad. I’d rather get shanked.”

“But do you really wanna be the bottom bun for some guy named Big Mac in cell block C?” Tank asked.

All the guys shuddered, Melody noted with amusement.

“Thank God for rehab,” Snake declared, holding his cigarette up in an ironic toast.

**

Melody shut the door to the restroom, double checking that she hadn’t dropped anything. She’d nearly spilled her entire purse when one of the female patients had startled her by asking if Melody was “holding” anything.

“Somebody probably watched you piss, you know. They have cameras everywhere.”

She gasped and spun around, finding herself facing Snake’s amused gaze.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t blame them if they did. They clearly can’t trust any of
you
people,” Melody joked.

He chuckled. “True enough, true enough.” His voice sounded like someone had passed a cheese grater over his vocal chords. She remembered listening to the Dust and Bones tracks he sang on, and wondering if that sound was electronically enhanced in some way. Now she knew—it was just Snake.

“I’m sorry we can’t stay longer,” she said. The other guys had really enjoyed the day with him, and it had been equally nice for her, getting to know the guy she’d been filling in for. He wasn’t nearly as scary as he seemed on stage.

Snake waved off the apology. “You’ve got a gig. The show must go on.” He considered her carefully. “So, you and Dylan, huh?”

That was a question she hadn’t been prepared for. They weren’t hiding it—whatever
it
was, because for all the declarations he’d made, they hadn’t really defined it yet—but she was still a little surprised it was so obvious. Dylan touched a lot of women that he didn’t have sex with...didn’t he?
Huh. I guess he probably didn’t. Well, there you go, Hopkins.

“Me and Dylan,” she agreed.

“I get it,” Snake said. “It’s hard being a chick on the road with a bunch of guys, especially in your particular case. Dylan’s a good choice, if you’re going for that angle. I would’ve suggested Jesper, but he’s got his nuts in a vice already.”

Melody frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Except she was pretty sure she did.

“You’re just watching out for yourself,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Making sure you’ve got a story to keep you relevant after I get out of here and get my life back.”

“I’m not with Dylan for my career,” she said, angry that he would dare to imply such a thing.

Snake laughed. “Whatever you say, darlin’. I’ve seen it before. Like I said, it’s a good play. Just remember: you’re only temporary. I
am
coming back to the band.”

He walked away before she could formulate a response. Part of Melody wanted to chase him down and force him to take it back—but she knew it would do no good, because it wasn’t Snake’s opinion of her that was worrying her...it was the worry that Dylan might be harboring similar thoughts.

Get a grip, Hopkins. Dylan knows you better than that.
If Snake thought she was a conniving creature who was using a rock star to further her own career, let him. She shouldn’t let that upset her. But she found herself shaking as she turned and walked down the hall in the opposite direction.

If she were honest with herself, she was a little afraid of Snake. Not because she thought he would hurt her; she was afraid of that spark inside him, that chaos that made him such a good musician. If he lost control over that, she worried about the fallout.

**

Snake ambled back to where the other guys were sitting in the courtyard. He passed an orderly in the hall; the older woman gave him a friendly nod which he did not return. Goddamn quacks, the lot of them. He hated this fucking center and everyone in it. He was going stir-crazy here, all alone with only his dark thoughts to keep him company.

“Hey man.”

He turned at the unexpected sound of a voice from down a side corridor. There, standing in front of a vending machine which offered only the shittiest of granola bars, was Rip.

“Not much of a selection, is it?” Snake asked, indicating the machine with a nod of his head. He walked over and leaned against the wall next to Rip. “This place is the worst, man. I’m dying in here.”

“Do they grant parole for good behavior?” Rip joked.

“I fucking wish.” Not that he’d get out for good behavior, anyway.

“I fucking wish, too,” Rip muttered. “You need to come back, bro. I don’t like the way things are heading.”

“What do you mean?” Snake asked, frowning.

“It’s Melody,” Rip explained bitterly.

“Don’t you worry about little Miss Thing,” Snake assured him, crossing his arms and allowing a dark smile to pull at the corners of his mouth. “I just had a chat with her. Told her not to get too comfortable.”

“Yeah, but did you talk to the other guys?” Rip persisted, jabbing his thumb towards the courtyard, where Dylan, Jesper and Tank were relaxing on some of the center’s shitty lounge chairs. “They like her. A lot.”

“Why, are they
all
fucking her?” Snake quipped.

“No, but...well, she’s pretty good, man. Even I have to admit it. But she’s not
you
,” he growled. “And she never will be, and I just don’t like that they’re getting so used to having her around. Sometimes I listen to how Jesper talks, and it’s like he fucking wants her to take your place permanently or something.”

Snake snorted; he wouldn’t even bother dignifying that with a response. Jesper would never betray him like that. Besides, even if all the members of the band suddenly woke up one morning and decided that they wanted Melody to replace Snake, that wasn’t going to change a damn thing. If anyone thought that Snake McCreedy was going to get the boot from his own band without putting up one hell of a fight, they were sorely mistaken.

“Don’t just laugh it off,” Rip warned. “They all treat her like she’s the best thing that ever happened to us, and it pisses me off. Like it or not, she’s more than your fill-in, she’s your competition, brother.”

“Then you better keep an eye on her and make sure she stays in line,” Snake said.

“Yeah, just...stay out of trouble, alright? I need you to get out and get back to the band.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s go to the dining room,” Snake said. “Not that the food there is any less shitty than this.” He kicked the vending machine as he walked past. Rip followed him, and they eased into a more lighthearted conversation.

Snake wasn’t threatened by Melody, and he wasn’t worried about her replacing him. He was a founding member of Dust and Bones, and no matter who was fucking whom, he trusted his brothers with his life. The girl was temporary, nothing more. And as soon as Snake was out of this dump, he’d be back in the band, and everything would be exactly the way it had been.

**

“You’re quiet,” Dylan observed, leaning into Melody’s personal space in a way he was quickly becoming addicted to. She just smelled so good, all citrus and spice. He was already playing around with the lyrics to another song about sex and the intoxicating smell of her hair.

They’d hired a limo to take them to the rehab center and to get around town, since Jesper hated being ostentatious with the tour bus. Dylan knew he would have much preferred to rent something more low-key, but with five of them, the limo was almost practical. They’d played an amazing show in Austin, and Tank was desperate to celebrate by doing the disgusting steak thing he insisted on trying every time they were within fifty miles of the Lone Star State.

“Just thinking,” she replied, resting her hand on his thigh. She’d been subdued, even on stage, since they’d left the rehab center. Snake had been oddly subdued when they had visited him, too, but that was understandable;
he
was stuck in there for another two weeks while they had a grand old time on the road.

“About what?” Dylan pressed. It was almost unhealthy, how he wanted to know every thought in her head. She was a mystery he wanted to solve, but secretly hoped he never would because then he could always wonder.

“Leave her alone,” Tank chided. “She’s probably freaking out about how abysmally she’s going to fail the Great Steak Challenge.”

“How can I be freaking out about it when you won’t even tell me what it is?” Melody asked, sounding exasperated.

“Psychological warfare,” Tank said, tapping the side of his head.

“It’s this ridiculous competition hosted by a local steakhouse,” Jesper explained. “If you can eat a seventy-two-ounce steak, baked potato, two onion rings, and a small side of creamed spinach, your meal is free and you get your picture on the wall.”

“My picture is going on that wall today,” Tank bragged. “None of you losers will ever manage it.”

“None of us have ever tried,” Rip corrected.

“We order sixteen-ounce steaks, and we enjoy our meals, thank you very much,” Dylan agreed.

“They have amazing cheesecake,” Jesper added.

Tank sniffed derisively. “I wouldn’t know, being the only real man in this car. Cheesecake,” he muttered.

“Heck, I’ll try,” Melody said.

Dylan groaned.
Of course she will.

Tank cackled in glee. “You are so fucking awesome, American Woman.” The limo rolled to a stop. Tank started bouncing in his seat like a little kid. “We’re here, fuck yeah,” he chanted gleefully.

They filed out of the limo one by one. As they were walking inside, Dylan felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned to find a college girl wearing a University of Texas sweatshirt, smiling up at him hopefully. “I love your band,” she gushed. “Would you mind giving me an autograph?”

He smiled. “Sure, no problem.”

She handed him a pen, then, quick as a wink, she whipped off her sweatshirt, revealing her bare breasts. She thrust her chest toward him. “Whichever one you prefer,” she said magnanimously.

Dylan froze. This was far from the first time he’d been asked to do something like this, but it was the first time his…whatever Melody was to him…was standing right next to him when it happened. He looked at her helplessly, sharpie poised in midair.

Melody was clearly trying not to laugh. She looked at the shirtless woman. “You’re over eighteen, right?”

“Nineteen this month,” the girl said proudly.

“And you do know that’s going to wash off in the shower later?” she reminded the girl.

“Oh, I’m gonna get it tattooed,” the girl explained. “I’ve got Justin Timberlake on my thigh.”

Melody shrugged. “If she’s got Timberlake on her thigh, I think the boob is an honor. Don’t smudge the B like you usually do, Dylan.”

That was the moment Dylan knew he was going to be in love with Melody someday, if he wasn’t already. Deep, scary, china patterns and screaming fights kind of love.

He signed the girl’s breast mechanically, taking care not to smudge the B. As soon as she’d departed for the tattoo parlor, carefully replacing her sweatshirt, he pressed Melody back against the wall of the steak house and kissed her, roughly and with great intent. His arms caged her in, his tongue tangled with hers, and he tried very hard to remember that they were on a public street. He had a sudden need to express what he felt to her, and this kiss was the best he could do at the moment; he was still way too chicken-shit to say anything out loud to her.

When he pulled back, they were both breathing heavily. The guys had already filed into the steakhouse, giving them a moment alone together. She laughed a little, seemingly giddy.

“So, I guess we’re not keeping things on the down-low with the guys then,” she teased, because he had been the one to suggest it in the first place. He didn’t want to hide them...but he didn’t want to flaunt it, either, especially not in the middle of a tour. To be honest, he hadn’t wanted Melody to put up with the inevitable ribbing. But he should have known that once he’d had her, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands or his lips or anything else to himself.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, wrapping an arm around her. “Let’s go get your steak on.”

An hour and a half later, Dylan was pretty sure it had to be love. Only that particular emotion could cause him to find Melody remotely attractive, given what he was witnessing. She was roughly sixty-nine ounces into that steak. Her strategy had been to get through the side dishes first so that in the end zone, there was nothing but meat standing between her and victory. A small crowd had gathered around their booth, patrons and staff alike, eager to watch a woman who barely weighed as much as one of Tank’s thighs get her picture on the Wall of Honor.

Privately, Dylan thought it was more a Wall of Shame, but he felt compelled to root for her since she was about to make Tank cry; he had thrown in the towel at fifty-five ounces with half his baked potato left.

“You’re doing great, babe,” Dylan praised, holding her free hand. She had pre-cut the last of the steak into bite sized pieces, and was methodically eating each one. “Almost there.”

“Just breathe through it,” Jesper coached, sitting on Melody’s other side.

“I can’t believe she’s gonna make the wall,” Tank muttered.

Melody looked him straight in the eye. “I’ve been training for this moment my whole life. I just didn’t know it yet.”

“This is going on the website,” Rip declared, holding a small HD video camera in front of him. “Smile, Mel.”

She flipped him off and popped another piece of steak into her mouth. Three more remained. She looked down at the plate and growled.