A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) (21 page)

“I want to change the set list,” he said.

“Not funny,” Rip replied.

“I’m not joking,” Dylan said. “We used to do it all the time when we were coming up, playing clubs. It kept us on our toes.”

“Crowds love spontaneity,” Jesper agreed.

“Are you doing this because…?” Melody asked.

Dylan looked her in the eye. “Because…fuck, losing Emma was even worse than some of the shit I had to go through in my childhood. Life is this precious, fleeting thing. Because Emma’s dead and we’re alive, and that should matter. I think I’ve been in shock the last couple of weeks. I’ve done every show since she died because I had to. Tonight…I’m going to do this show because I
want
to. I want to do this for her. And I don’t think I can unless we do it this way.”

They all paused for a moment, considering Dylan’s words. Then...

“Let’s do this old school,” Tank declared, nodding.

“Rock out with our cocks out,” Rip agreed, with an edge to his voice that had been bothering Dylan lately. He looked at Melody and added insincerely, “No offense.”

“None taken,” she assured him, ignoring his tone, as had become her habit. “I can’t wait to see it.”

Jesper scrutinized Dylan with a sharp eye. “You’re sure you can handle this?”

Dylan nodded. “I can handle anything for her.” He was talking about Emma, but as if on instinct, his gaze moved to Melody for a moment before skittering awkwardly back to Jesper. His oldest friend smirked at him.

“That’s serious,” Jesper said, so quietly that only Dylan could hear.

“No one likes you when you’re smug,” Dylan muttered.

“Well, tonight let’s do it up right,” Jesper said, much louder. “We’re gonna tear this place down.”

Tank gave a happy whoop, and they filed out onstage, the crowd’s screams redoubling as they emerged. Dylan gave Melody a fast, hard kiss just before they walked into the open.

“What was that for?” she wondered, looking a little dazed.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but this was most certainly not the time to say them.

“Stupid sexy rock guy,” he heard her grumble as she took her place on stage.

They played songs they hadn’t touched in years. They performed one song which they hadn’t performed since they’d gotten their first record deal, a tongue-in-cheek pro-drug anthem that Rip and Snake had written ages ago. It felt appropriate, as both a shout-out to an absent brother, and as a way to celebrate the foolishness of youth. The New Orleans crowd went wild for it. The magic that seemed to go out for Dylan a few weeks ago had returned, and then some.

“This has been a hard road for us,” Dylan said into the microphone when the concert was nearly over. “You’re here with us on a different kind of night. We recently lost someone very special to us, someone who left our world far too soon. Tonight, New Orleans, Saint City, voodoo children, you’re going to help us.” The crowd cheered their support, sparking the flame in Dylan’s heart. “You’re going to help us because this city knows about loss. This city knows about rebirth. This city knows how to take something awful and make it beautiful.” He was deafened by screams and the pounding of feet on the bleachers. Dylan could almost feel the energy crackling all around them.

Nothing left but dust. For you, Emma.

He knew exactly what he wanted to play for her. It was a song he had written shortly after she had been born. After he’d seen her for the first time, tiny, pink-cheeked, angelic, the music had just poured out of him. It was the last track on their first album, and everyone who heard it had thought it was about heartache—but
Easy to Break
was all about Emma, and the effortless way he had loved her from the very first moment he’d laid eyes on her.

That song, as it came to life on stage, transcended…everything. Tank took an extra-long guitar solo, leaning back-to-back with Jesper as they got caught up in the music. Rip hit the drums with such fervor and intensity that he shattered both of his pink drumsticks. Dylan was glad; it wouldn’t have been right to use them again or put them away somewhere. He sang the choruses on Melody’s microphone. She leaned close as she harmonized with him, playing a sweet bluesy symphony of compassion and heartbreak on her bass. Grace hadn’t wanted a funeral, but on that stage in New Orleans, Dust and Bones threw Emma a wake attended by eighteen thousand enraptured souls.

Then it was over. The crowd went wild, but no one clamored for an encore—after all, they had already played an hour over their original set list. The band limped off the stage, their emotional pain transformed into physical by the music and the effort they had expended bringing it to life.

And when they returned to the greenroom, something miraculous happened. It was like a switch had been flipped, and life went back to the way it had been. Jesper texted his girl, checking to see if she was still awake; Tank caught up on
American Idol
; Rip started cruising music blogs to see what the reaction had been to their concert; Melody shoved Dylan down on a couch, straddled him, and fused their mouths together for a solid ten minutes.

By the time she pulled back, Dylan was panting, his hands firmly on her ass, holding her to him. He was hard, grinding against her like a teenager. Her breath was sizzling on his mouth and she pressed a few softer, fleeting kisses there before she sat back on his thighs.

“I’m starving,” she said in sudden realization, and before he could try to stop her, she’d climbed off his lap and had started flipping through her phone, muttering about pizza deliveries.

She wandered off to make a call to a local restaurant, and Tank took her place, settling next to Dylan on the couch.

“I tell ya, your girlfriend eats too much. But I’m glad she was there with you,” Tank said. “You know. When Emma…”

Dylan nodded. “I honestly don’t know what I would have done without her,” he admitted. “Hell, she was more of a help to Grace than I was. I was useless.”

“Well, you had an excuse. Besides, girls need each other,” Tank said. “They have to plug into the hive brain every now and then to recharge, or something.” He sighed, his expression far away. “Emma was nine,” he said quietly. “My kid is gonna be twelve. I haven’t fucking seen her since before she was Emma’s age. She could have died, D.”

“She didn’t,” Dylan said, placing what he hoped was a comforting hand on Tank’s shoulder. “She’s alive, man. Don’t do this to yourself.”

“It’d end me if something happened to her,” Tank muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fuckin’ ruin me, man. And what am I doing? Screwing around with my life, and ruining hers in the process. She needs a dad. A
good
dad.”

“It’s not like you chose to walk away,” Dylan reasoned.

“Didn’t I?” Tank wondered.

Dylan opened his mouth to say no, of course he hadn’t; Tank’s ex had made it pretty clear at the time that he was no longer welcome in his daughter’s life. And, he reasoned, she may well have had a point. They’d been partying hard back then—Tank harder than any of them. Snake may have been the one to actually land himself in rehab, but that could just as easily have been any of them over the years.

“You’re clean now,” Dylan said. “You haven’t used anything harder than pot in…”

“A year,” Tank confirmed. “But on the other hand, it’s been a year, and I still haven’t tried to make contact. What the hell does that make me?”

“Scared,” Dylan guessed quietly.

“Terrified,” Tank agreed. “Which is a pretty shitty reason for a father to stay away from his kid.”

Dylan couldn’t help but think of his own father, who had actually gone so far as to write him letters. Whatever his motive, he had made an attempt to reach out and make contact. He must have been scared of rejection, and since Dylan had done exactly that, he hadn’t found the courage to try again. So maybe Dylan was the one who needed to be brave this time.

He looked across the room at Melody, who seemed irritated that the pizza place was closed at this hour. She was the bravest person he knew, and she made him think crazy things; she made him
want
crazy things. She’d been encouraging him to at least try, claiming that not knowing was worse than knowing. He wasn’t sure he agreed with her, but when he thought about Emma, when he considered what life might have been like for her if she’d had a grandfather…in a strange way, he felt like he owed it to her. Emma would never have the chance to meet her grandfather, but Dylan could see his father again. He could know, once and for all, where they stood.

“You should go see your daughter, man,” Dylan said, looking back at Tank. “You should go see her now, while you can. We have a break after tonight. I got some amazing new ideas for the new album and then we’ll get busy again, and when that happens you’ll just find a reason not to do it.”

Tank nodded, though he still looked conflicted. Dylan understood the feeling. He wouldn’t have been strong enough to do what he was planning to do without Melody there, helping him along the way.

“Yeah. I’m gonna try,” Tank said. He punched Dylan on the shoulder affectionately, then wandered over towards Rip, who was muttering about snooty hipster bloggers.

Melody appeared before again as if he’d conjured her there. She sank down onto his lap, and he smiled and wrapped his arms around her to press her against his body.

“That was an amazing show,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

“It was,” Dylan agreed. “Like old times.”

“Only thing missing was Snake,” Rip said from behind his computer.

Dylan nodded. “Yeah. Good thing we had Mel to rescue us.”

“I wouldn’t call it a rescue,” Rip muttered.

“What was that?” Dylan asked, sitting up straighter.

“Come on,” Rip scoffed. “She screwed up more than a few times tonight.”

“Actually,” Melody said. “I was improvising. I thought that’s what the night was about.”

“It was,” Jesper said quietly.

“For
us
,” Rip said, gesturing between them. “We wrote that song.
Snake
has a right to improvise it.
She
has a right to play it exactly the way it fucking goes.”

“That’s it,” Dylan growled. He grabbed Melody around the hips and lifted her off his lap. She squeaked as she landed on the couch beside him and he stood, rounding on Rip. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Your new girlfriend is my fucking problem,” Rip said, shoving back his chair and standing as well. “My problem is that you seem to be stabbing a brother in the back just because you’re addicted to her pussy.”

Dylan would have leapt across the room to attack Rip if Melody hadn’t slipped between them, putting her hands on Dylan’s chest. Jesper rose and hovered at Dylan’s side, taking a hold of his arm to restrain him.

“Tank, help me out here,” Jesper implored.

“No way,” Tank said, still engrossed in
American Idol
. “He deserves to get his ass kicked for that one.”

“No one is getting their ass kicked,” Melody said firmly.

“You talk about her that way again, I’ll break your fucking nose,” Dylan yelled. “What the fuck, man?”

“You’re not hitting him. Not for me,” she said.

“Then I’ll hit him for me,” Dylan snapped.

“You can try,” Rip taunted. “Fucking tragic, man. We’ve come to blows over a chick.”

“We’ve come to blows over you being an asshole,” Dylan yelled.

“You really are being a dick,” Jesper told Rip, looking at him with the disappointed expression that he usually reserved for Dylan.

Rip threw his hands in the air. “I’m the dick? You’re the ones willing to canonize a
temporary
replacement. You give her more room to improvise than you ever gave Snake. And before you start, I’m
not
just talking about tonight.” Rip’s eyes were wide and wounded. Dylan took a few deep breaths, and realized that maybe Rip wasn’t
just
being a dick. Maybe he actually felt betrayed.

“Where is this coming from, man?” Dylan asked. “You didn’t have a problem with Mel before.”

“I don’t have a problem with Mel,” Rip said. He looked her in the eye, an apology flashing across his face. “I don’t have a problem with you, Mel,” he repeated. “It’s just...you know, you’re taking Snake’s place. Can’t help but take his place—I mean, we need a fucking bassist. So I don’t blame you for that. I blame
him
,” he growled, glaring daggers at Dylan.

“I’m not trying to take anything from anyone,” Melody said quietly. “I guess I forgot my place around here with things going so well. I won’t forget it now.”

“Forget it,” Rip muttered. “I hope she’s worth it, Dylan. You’re the one who’s gonna have to live with betraying a brother over a piece of ass.” And with that, he turned his back on them and left the greenroom.

Melody stood next to Dylan, breathing unsteadily. He could see how upset she was.

“He’s just acting out,” Jesper told her. “Don’t take it personally, Mel.”

She forced out a dry laugh. “How could I possibly take anything he said personally?” she wondered, her voice full of sarcasm.

“He was out of line,” Dylan told her. “And he was wrong. About
everything.
” He stared at her pointedly, willing her to understand that he didn’t just see her as a piece of ass, but as a talented musician, a kind and loving person, and quite possibly the most amazing woman he’d ever met.

Though he couldn’t put all of his thoughts into words, Melody seemed to be able to read between the lines. The hurt dissipated from her beautiful features, replaced by the beginnings of a smile.

“Don’t let him get to you,” he added in a soft voice.

“I’ll try, but I may need a distraction,” she said, her small smile widening. “Sit.”

“I think that’s our cue to get out of here before we see something we can’t un-see,” Jesper declared, grabbing Tank and exiting the room.

Dylan sat. He was happy to be the picture of obedience when a pretty girl was about to sit on him. Melody straddled him again. “You need de-stressing,” she declared, practically hypnotizing him with those eyes of hers. They were as green and vibrant as ever, but there was also a strange gleam in them—they were suspiciously over-bright, as if shining with unshed tears. Maybe Rip’s scathing comments had bothered her more than she’d let on?