A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) (3 page)

Dylan rubbed a hand over his face and tried to push his brooding thoughts out of his head.

The brunette plopped herself down in Dylan’s lap while the girl with the magenta dye job made herself comfortable in Rip’s lap, trying to draw his attention away from his laptop. But even though she licked at his neck and writhed in his lap, his attention never wavered from the blue glow of the computer screen.

“Let’s play a game, honey,” the brunette said as she walked her fingers over Dylan’s shirt.

“How about no,” Dylan said, mostly under his breath. He wasn’t sure why, but he was suddenly frustrated—angry that he couldn’t write, angry that Jesper had found himself a serious girlfriend, and angry that the hair brushing his cheek wasn’t red.

The girl with the bright green eyes flashed through his mind again and the image of her stuck no matter how hard Dylan tried to push it out.
Melody.

“Dude,” Rip said, straightening in his seat suddenly. “Catfight in Hollywood.”

Dylan ignored him. Rip always was interested in vulgar displays of sexuality, but Dylan couldn’t dredge up the energy to care—not about hot girls fighting, and not about the brunette sliding her hand up his thigh.

He sighed and placed his hand over hers, halting its process. “I’m not really in the mood,” he said.

The brunette blinked as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you
kidding
me?”

“Apparently not,” he muttered, nudging her back a bit so he could slide out from under her. He could hardly believe himself, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Melody. Just the
thought
of her was enough to make him twitch with yearning, yet the presence of the busty brunette next to him did absolutely nothing for him.

There must be something wrong with him.

The brunette rolled her eyes and pushed herself away from him. “Jerk,” she spat, glaring at him for a second before turning straight to Tank. The two of them disappeared into a bedroom within minutes.

Dylan barely noticed, and didn’t care. Yep. There was
definitely
something wrong with him.

“Dude, come on. This is totally hot,” Rip said, still trying to get Dylan to come look at the article he mentioned, still ignoring the magenta-haired girl grinding against him. “It’s a girl band, and you know those fights are
legendary
.”

Dylan made a noncommittal sound. He couldn’t bring himself to be interested in what Rip was saying, so he got up and started towards the bedrooms, too. On his way to his own room, he paused at Jesper’s door and knocked.

Of his four bandmates, Dylan had known Jesper the longest. Having moved from Sweden when he was eight, Jesper still had a slight twinge of a Swedish accent, which the girls loved. Dylan and Jesper met in high school, when they had both been passionate about music and determined to make themselves into something special. They’d formed a quick alliance that had eventually become a partnership—one that worked surprisingly well, despite all their differences. Jesper was calm; Dylan was hot-headed. Jesper was thoughtful; Dylan was a smartass. Jesper would have been content with financial stability; Dylan wanted to rock the world.

Dylan waited a few seconds after he knocked before opening Jesper’s door. Fortunately, Jesper was fully dressed and his phone was charging on the nightstand next to his bed.
Unfortunately
, he had a look on his face like his dog just died.

And Jesper didn’t even
have
a dog.

“What’s wrong?” Dylan asked, stepping inside. His own troubles faded away instantaneously.

“Ugh,” Jesper said quickly. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re making that face. You know, the kicked-puppy face.”

“I ain’t got no kicked-puppy face, you douche,” Jesper said.

Dylan grinned and crossed his arms. Jesper could be stubborn, but Dylan always won in the end. “Alright, alright, how about you just tell me what’s wrong?”

Jesper sighed, seeming to realize that his stubbornness wouldn’t win out this time. “It’s Snake.”

Dylan huffed out a tired laugh. Well, that had been simple. “What did he do now, and how much is his bail?”

Jesper shook his head, his shoulders hunched. “He crashed his bike into the buffet table at the mayor’s re-election campaign party,” he said. Then, after cringing, he added, “As they were addressing him, he—
heartily
endorsed the other guy.”

Dylan sighed. This was more public than Snake’s usual fuck-ups, but it wasn’t anything their publicists couldn’t take care of. “So, he spends a night in the drunk tank. So what? Did he hurt somebody?”

Jesper shook his head. “No, but—it’s too many strikes for him, they gave him two choices. Jail or rehab. So rehab it is,” Jesper said hoarsely.

“So, our tour…” Dylan said.

“Yep. We’re in deep shit now, buddy,” Jesper interrupted, nodding.

It took Dylan a while—maybe a minute, maybe more—to gather his thoughts. He moved to lean heavily against Jesper’s desk. He should have been angry, or worried, or even scared...but all he felt was tired.

This had been one hell of a night. The memory of Melody’s rejection still nagged at him. The two girls he
had
managed to bring home were currently working over his band mates. And now, to top it all off, they were about to kick off a twenty-three city tour—with no bass player.

At least it couldn’t get any worse than that, right? Wrong.

“Boring, dude.” 

Dylan rolled his eyes at Rip, who wasn’t even paying attention—he was playing a game on his phone. “Could you be any more of a child?”

Tank kicked the back of Dylan’s seat. “I’m hungry.”

“And this is why I
don’t
have kids, ” Jesper said. He pulled a granola bar out of his backpack and tossed it over to Tank, who caught it and grinned.

“Sweet. ” The sound of the plastic wrapper being ripped apart briefly distracted Dylan from the auditory torture coming from the stage in front of them.

Jesper noticed his unimpressed grimace. “Bass isn’t meant to be played unaccompanied,” he said, smiling indulgently.

“
This
guy’s bass isn’t meant to be played at all, ” Dylan muttered.

They were sitting in the small screening theater of their label’s recording studio, tackling the daunting—and, it seemed, impossible—task of finding a replacement bassist for their tour. They had been auditioning a parade of musicians for three solid hours, and each one had been worse than the last.

The kid who was currently on stage was the hottest new bass player in town, according to Craig Hopkins, head of Impact Records. So far, Dylan was totally unimpressed. The kid’s claim to fame was that he had over six million hits on a YouTube recording of him playing
All Along the Watchtower
. On bass.

It sounded like a cat playing a foghorn.

Dylan held up a hand to put a stop to the endless, wailing notes. “Thank you, okay, that’s great. Do you know any of our songs?”

The sixteen-year-old YouTube sensation stared at him, a blank expression on his round face. “Who are you guys again?”

“Get out,” Rip said flatly, without looking up from his phone.

“Whatever. I’ve got a meeting with Bieber’s people after this.” The kid gathered up his equipment and flounced off the stage.

“I see you boys are making friends and inspiring the next generation of musical talent. ”

Dylan looked up at the sound of the new voice and barely contained a groan.
Great. Craig himself. My life is complete.

“I thought you weren’t coming today, ” Dylan said in greeting.

“Nice to see you, too,” Craig said dryly. His graying beard was coming in thicker than usual, giving him the look of a roadie with a grudge to settle. His steely eyes and scowling mouth did nothing to soften his appearance. Craig was the single most intimidating individual Dylan had ever met—and that was based on appearance alone. When one counted the fact that he held the band’s future in his callused hands, his scare-factor tripled. “So, any luck?”

“Seriously, Craig? What do you think? Are you kidding me with these guys?”

“Oh, I’m sorry that the only available musicians aren’t up to your superior standards.” Craig shoved Tank’s legs off the back of the seat next to Dylan and plopped down. “Your bass player went into rehab three days before a twenty-three city tour. What do you expect, kid?”

It infuriated Dylan when Craig called him ‘kid’, which, he suspected, was exactly why Craig did it. He also suspected that Craig had gathered them in the studio theater at eight (in the
morning
)
because he knew that the band normally didn’t roll out of bed until well after noon. They had been lured here by coffee and the promise that Craig had booked the best available talent on hand.

Dylan’s heart sank when he realized this actually
might
be the best they could hope for.

“I thought we’d at least get something a little more polished than the Internet sensation of the minute,” Dylan complained. “None of these people are in Snake’s league.”

“Snake McCreedy is a pain in my ass,” Craig growled. “And if you boys were honest with me—which you never are—you’d say the same thing. But,” he added grudgingly, seeing that Rip had opened his mouth to argue, “he’s also a damn good bass player. The reason no one measures up is because you can’t follow James Brown. ”

Tank chuckled. “Snake would piss himself if he heard you call him the James Brown of bass players. ”

“Which is why I keep that kind of information to myself,” Craig said. “I clean up enough of your messes, I don’t need to be changing your diapers, too.”

“As charming as this banter is,” Dylan interrupted in an irritated voice, “we’re no closer to finding a replacement for the tour. Exactly how bad would it be if we had to cancel?” he added, appalled that he’d even considered asking.

“Apocalyptic,” Craig hissed. Dylan let out a sigh of relief under his breath; he’d sooner cut off a testicle than quit on the band—but listening to second-rate, hack bassists all morning had put him in a foul mood.

“Then what are we going to do?”

“We’re sure as hell not canceling, I’ll tell you that. I’d toss a chimp on stage with a guitar that isn’t plugged in before I scrap this tour.” Craig held up a hand to forestall any wisecracks. “Fortunately, we don’t have to go there just yet.”

Rip shrugged. “I think the chimp sounds
awesome.
”

“
Blue Eternity
is already using a chimp,” Jesper informed them. “Though I believe he plays the drums.”

“Enough with the goddamn chimp,” Craig snapped. “We’ve still got one more option.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Dylan asked.

Craig sighed. “Kid, none of us are going to like this. Hey, Mel,” he said, raising his voice. “You’re up. Hit us with something.”

For a moment, nothing happened; then from somewhere offstage, music began to swell, drifting towards them through the small theater. Right away, Dylan recognized the bass line of the Beatles’
I Want You
. He felt, more than saw, the other guys sit up straighter. Rip even put down his precious technology as he was swept up in the tune. The sound was bluesy and smooth, exactly the way McCartney had played it, exactly as Lennon had written it.

Craig had always had a flair for the dramatic, and it was clear that he’d saved the best for last. Having the bassist hide backstage before making a grand entrance was all part of his act—not that he needed one. This mystery bassist was incredible.

“I’m a little hard right now,” Tank admitted without shame.

“Way more than a little,” Dylan agreed.

“Watch your mouths, unless you want a punch in them,” Craig warned. “Mel, come on out, honey.”

“Honey?” Rip smirked. “Something you wanna tell us, Craigers? We won’t judge if you’re going through a late-life sexual identity crisis.”

Craig didn’t rise to the bait. He merely crossed his arms and looked back to the stage, where the bassist was finally emerging from behind the curtains.

It was strange how Dylan almost wasn’t surprised when he saw who it was. A shiny red bass guitar hung across her chest like it was an extension of her body, its color matching her long hair. In the stage lights, her eyes were even brighter than they had been in the bar. She met Dylan’s gaze unflinchingly, and he was suddenly overcome with the desire to fight with her and kiss her at the same time. It was supremely unfair that he was affected like this, while she couldn’t be bothered to give him the time of day.

“Now I really
am
hard,” Tank muttered. Dylan resisted the urge to hit him.

“I said shut it,” Craig thundered. He was really keyed up this morning; what was bothering him? “Melody, these are the heathens you’re so taken with. Heathens, this is Melody, a bass player who’s way too good for you.”

“Charmed,” Melody said.

“I don’t know,” Rip said. He gestured toward Melody in apology. “We’re a dude band. It’s a vibe, you know? I don’t know if the estrogen will mesh.”

“You’ve had problems with
everyone
who auditioned,” Craig snapped. “You just don’t like the idea of someone replacing Snake. Well guess what, you’re all out of options.” Rip slouched down further in his seat, crossing his arms and glaring at Melody.

“I promise I won’t go in your club house,” she said dryly. “You can keep your ‘no girls allowed’ sign. I just thought I might be able to help, seeing as I know all your songs.”

“You know our songs?” Dylan asked, raising an eyebrow. So, she had known exactly who he was at the bar. He wasn’t sure why that bothered him so much, but it did.

“Mel’s a big fan,” Craig said, sounding as if he couldn’t quite believe that fact.

“No way,” Tank said excitedly.

“Try me,” Melody challenged. Dylan watched her fingers twitch over the guitar strings. Her nails were cut short, painted blue. He noticed the streak of blue in her hair from the night before, the color matching the streak of blue across the front of her bass. The matching color scheme added to the illusion that she and the instrument were fused in some strange, mystical way.

“
Follow the Night
,” Jesper said, naming one of the more obscure songs off their second album.