A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) (6 page)

“Oh vou thons of bithes,” she muttered around her half-full, rapidly heating mouth. Whatever sauce they’d snuck into her meal felt like it was about fifty times hotter than sriracha.

“Is that lard sandwich not quite as delicious anymore?” Dylan asked innocently.

Melody threw open the mini fridge, sagging in relief when she spotted a carton of half and half on the bottom shelf. She grabbed it and guzzled the contents, though it didn’t bring her relief nearly as quickly as she would have liked. When you hated hot food, you learned how to counteract them; she had never been so grateful for that lesson that a waiter at a Mexican restaurant had taught her, after he’d saved her from a rogue Serrano pepper.
No agua, Senorita,
he had cautioned wisely.
Leche.

Oh, sweet, sweet leche.

The burn began to fade from her tongue, and Melody slowly regained her senses. She took a deep breath and brought the back of her hand to her mouth, wiping away the residual milk mustache that must be there. The laughter from the peanut gallery had died down, and when she glanced over her shoulder at them, she saw that they were standing by warily, as if waiting for some kind of retribution. She even thought Tank looked guilty again. Melody slammed the empty carton down on the counter and turned to face her new band mates fully.

“We’re out of coffee creamer,” she said calmly before taking a seat at the table and finishing her pepper-free French fries.

She would
never
let those jerks know they were getting to her.

**

The two days on the road that followed the panty raid were relatively quiet. The respite should have comforted her, but instead, Melody just felt like this was the calm before the storm. Only an idiot would have believed the pepper incident had been isolated, and Craig Hopkins had not raised a fool.

Melody found herself wishing that she’d had siblings; knowing how to handle brothers definitely would have helped her deal with her current situation. But she had been an only child; her mother had died only a few months after she was born from a rare heart condition that had presented after the pregnancy.

After that, her father had poured everything he had into raising Melody. She owed him everything—and she wasn’t about to disappoint him by giving up just because things were a little tough. This was the life she knew, the one that was in her DNA. This was the life she had been born to embrace. It was a life that had led her to some truly great moments, and some genuinely spectacular failures.

She did her best not to focus on all those failures as she strove to avoid what was shaping up to be an
epic
case of stage fright.

Tonight was their first show,
her
first show filling in for Snake McCreedy. They were in the heart of San Francisco, surrounded by its rolling hills and romantic views, and cold, biting air...but Melody couldn’t enjoy a minute of it. She was too busy worrying about the impending show, and to top it all off, she had been plagued by terrible visions of what the guys were planning to do to her next.

Stop it
, she thought to herself. She refused to let them rattle her, not now, not right before she had to perform. Eventually the boys would get the pranks out of their systems and then, hopefully, they could all find some kind of peace with each other. Besides, the situation was temporary—Snake would be out of rehab in a few weeks, and then he would resume his rightful place with Dust and Bones.

Melody had known that she wouldn’t be staying with the guys for long; all she’d really wanted was the experience, the excitement of the road, the thrill of the crowd, and the sense of fun and adventure in hanging out with one of her favorite bands.

Now, if only they would stop being jackasses for five minutes.

Thus far, their rehearsals had gone well. Melody had been wary at first, but something magical happened to the guys when they picked up their instruments. They somehow transformed from tormenters into brothers. They were total professionals, working seamlessly to find the perfect pitch, rhythm, and harmony.

They had been rehearsing their songs almost nonstop, both on the road and at rest. Whatever their issues with each other, they were all united in one common purpose: to rock the hell out of their first gig together.

She’d been worried that the sound check earlier that day would change that. As Dylan and Jesper had put their heads together to finalize the set list, Melody couldn’t help nervously looking over her shoulder every few seconds, feeling more like she was at a haunted house than on the stage of a four thousand seat theater.

When Rip burst out in an impromptu drum solo, she’d thought for sure it was a signal for Tank to pelt her with water balloons. When Dylan hit a bum note and the mic reverberated, she’d almost hit the deck, certain that some kind of attack was imminent. But all her worrying had been for naught; there had been no pranks or hazing all afternoon. Melody was sure that the momentary letup wasn’t going to last long, but it had been a nice change of pace.

Now, the moment of truth was upon them. They were assembled backstage, waiting for their first show together to begin. The roar of the crowd out in the theater was already deafening. Melody looked around, taking everything in, feeling slightly overwhelmed. She saw Big Mike talking to some of the guys on the security detail. She waited for the guards to leave before she approached him.

“Hey,” she said quietly.

Mike smiled down at her knowingly. “Got a case of the jitters?”

Less so about the show than about worrying what the boys will
do
during the show
, she thought to herself, though aloud she put on a brave smile and said, “Yeah, just nervous. First time on stage with a new band...it’s exciting.”

“You hear that noise?” he said, pointing towards the theater. “That’s all for you.” Melody nodded. It was time to stop fretting over her band mates’ antics, and time to start thinking about the music.

“Now, I’ve got a backstage area to lock down.” He winked at Melody and whispered, “Break a leg, kid.”

Melody winced. Given the boys’ affinity for pranks, actually breaking a leg was not out of the realm of possibility. And while she was sure the guys would stop short at doing her physical harm, she knew they didn’t have enough self-restraint not to set something in motion that would lead to her accidental maiming.

Whatever Machiavellian mousetrap they had planned for her tonight, she would just have to pull up her big girl panties and take it like a rock star.

Preferably a rock star with two unbroken legs.

**

Melody had no idea it would be like this. The screaming from the crowd, the heat from the lights, the energy pulsing in the air as they
rocked the fuck out
. She felt higher than if she’d actually indulged in some of the many illicit substances that always floated around backstage at concerts.

Though they might not be getting along on the road, one thing was abundantly clear to Melody as her first concert as a member of Dust and Bones wound down: she was officially ruined for other groups. She and Tank had gone back-to-back for three of his solos, feeding off each other as they played. The band had improvised a novelty cover of a
Fleetwood Mac
song when a drunk fan wouldn’t stop requesting it, and she and Dylan had gotten creative with the vocals, working together in perfect unison, making her heart swoop and soar. Even the recalcitrant Rip had given her a little cymbal approval after she’d perfectly executed one of Snake’s most complex riffs.

She was so high on her euphoria, in fact, that she forgot to keep her guard up.

“This is an old one,” Dylan said into the mic, “but it’s one of our favorites. We always like to play it when we’re in the Bay Area.” The crowd went wild as Tank led the band into the opening.

This was one of her favorite Dust and Bones songs. It was so raw, so animalistic. She wondered which of Dylan’s many conquests had been the inspiration for this tune, and whether he’d spent more than one night with that particular girl. She wondered what it might be like to experience that passion, not just in a song, but in—

Stop it, Hopkins
, she chided herself, before she could get too caught up in the thought of what Dylan was like in bed. She concentrated on the music to distract herself.

The bass line was complicated, but Melody’s hands instinctually flew over the strings as she got lost, the way she usually did, in the unashamedly sexual rhythm. In the periphery of her vision, she saw Dylan moving closer to her. His voice low and gritty as he entreated every woman (and likely a few men) within listening distance to
come a little closer now
. Melody could feel the heat between them as he approached, the kind of raw magnetism that fueled really amazing sex and energized live performances. Their chemistry seemed to fit with the song, in a way she couldn’t explain and didn’t care to examine, not when the lights, the crowd, and the pounding beat were all she was living for.

At least, that was the excuse she gave herself later for why she didn’t immediately pull away when Dylan kissed her. It was sudden, definitely something he took rather than something he asked for. After all, he’d already asked, and she’d turned him down.

Would she have had the strength to reject him if she’d known it would feel like this? Even though it hadn’t been asked for, she couldn’t say she didn’t want it—his mouth fit against hers the way no other had. Or maybe, she thought as she explored his tongue with her own, it was just the performer in her responding to the performer in him, giving the crowd what they wanted: a climax to a song that was all sex, want and take.

He pulled away and her eyes opened, staring up into his. She saw a hint of surprise in the dark blue depths of his gaze, but the dominant emotion there was definitely smugness. She felt anger welling within her heart, and berated herself for getting so caught up in the moment and playing the fool.

Every time she forgot who she was dealing with, he disappointed her. At some point, it became more her problem than his. She supposed it was all for the best that this had happened now, so soon, and as part of the show. This way it was just another prank, a hazing incident. If the kiss had been real, if he’d meant it, she probably wouldn’t have been able to keep herself from falling...and there was no way she could let that happen.

Instead, she gave the crowd another show.

Her palm made a satisfying
crack
against Dylan’s cheek. The look of shock on his face was worth the price of admission alone. The bass line only faltered for a fraction of a second before her fingers were back, slipping right into place with the ease of a long time lover.

Dylan leaned into the mic again, his expression a little dazed, a lot pissed off, and just a touch impressed. His voice was all cockiness and self-deprecating humor when he sang the line
look but don’t touch
.

The crowd went wild. Melody was shaking inside, beset by conflicting feelings; she was mad that he’d taken advantage like that, upset that part of her had liked it, ashamed that the side of his stubbly jaw already had a bright red mark in the shape of her hand, and still wary, because there was no way that a kiss was the big hazing moment of her first show. She glanced at the other guys—Jesper looked irritated, Tank’s wide eyes were practically popping out of his skull, and Rip was glaring at the back of Dylan’s head. No, the kiss had been solely Dylan’s idea—he had gone rogue.

The song came to an end, and they filed offstage, the crowd stomping their feet, demanding an encore. Melody had always found this process at a concert ridiculous—making people beg for an encore that was a pre-planned part of a set list—but she couldn’t deny that it felt good to hear the screams and claps and thumping of feet on stadium seats.

“Not cool, Bennett,” she told Dylan, as she swapped one bass for another.

“Listen to me, sweetheart. I
know
you loved it,” he challenged her. “
They
loved it.”

“They came for a show,” she argued, her voice raised because he wouldn’t be able to hear her otherwise. And because she really wanted to yell at him.

“And we gave them one they’ll never forget,” he yelled back, excitement in his eyes. It was the kind of enthusiasm and passion that made women fall at his feet.

Melody stayed resolutely upright. “Don’t ever kiss me on stage again,” she warned.

He grinned. “I’ll stick to kissing you offstage then. All over your delicious body.”

“You’re not capable of earning the right to kiss me offstage,” she told him. An inexplicable sadness settled in her heart as she realized the truth of her words.
Come on, Mel; you know what he is. You shouldn’t want him to prove you wrong.

“We’re on,” Jesper announced, leading the charge back onto the stage.

Melody all but ran after him, desperate to avoid an incredibly uncomfortable conversation.

The final encore was
Victory or Death.
Despite their brief argument, Dylan was back in playful form, showing off to the crowd, strutting his stuff on the stage.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion. Later, Melody realized that they had obviously set something up before the show. At the moment the final note played and the scheduled confetti canon went off, spraying the stage and the audience with bits of colored paper, another bucket—rigged,
Carrie-
style, from the ceiling—showered down hundreds of oblong objects on Melody’s head.

Tampons. So many tampons.

The guys were practically on the floor; even Jesper was unable to contain his raucous laughter. Melody had to hand it to them—it was a well-crafted final act (God, please let it be final) to the hazing. Misogynistic, wasteful, insulting, and a little gross—but well-crafted.

Melody stooped down, scooped up a handful of tampons and tucked them into the tight pockets of her jeans. She leaned into Dylan’s mic just as he had opened his mouth to give the close. “Aw, guys. You’re keeping track of my cycle. Now I don’t have to go to CVS. GOODNIGHT SAN FRANCISCO!”

If looks could kill, Dylan would have murdered her where she stood. She knew he had an almost psychotic proprietary claim on signing them off each night. Well, he should have thought of that before he decided to make it rain feminine hygiene products.