A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) (12 page)

“Back it up there, Rock of Love,” she said, looking somewhat annoyed. “We need to brush up on some information that may have escaped your memory due to alcohol poisoning.”

“What information?” he asked, though he had the feeling he didn’t want to know.

“I am not easy,” she said firmly.

“I know you—”
aren’t
, he had been about to say, but her fingers silenced him before he could finish his thought.

“You like easy,” she continued. “You like an easy lay and an easy goodbye, because that way no one gets too invested, no one gets hurt, and probably no one wants to take it any further.”

“I’m not—” Silenced yet again by that finger of hers. At least her body was touching his mouth in some small way—even that small connection between them was enough to ignite an inferno of desire that spread throughout his veins. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything.

“Let me be clear,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I’m not easy, but I’m not difficult. I’m young, but I’m not stupid—at least, not anymore. I’m only interested in finding something worth missing if I lost it. I’m not into meaningless sex. I only want something that would rip my heart out when it ends. So if you ever decide to try
this
again,” she tapped his mouth with her fingertips, “you’d better mean it, and mean it for the long haul. I’m not some random groupie you can lose yourself in for just one night.”

She slid off the bench and walked off the stage before he could find his voice. The man he had been a few weeks ago would have gone after her, would have charmed and seduced her, and worn her down to get what he wanted. But somewhere between then and now, that man had started to fade.

He let out a soft chuckle; he hardly recognized himself. What was it about Melody that made him want the sort of permanence—and pain—that he had always striven to avoid? Just the thought of a real relationship, one that had consequences and responsibilities, one that might end and break him, body, heart and soul, should have had him running for the hills. So why did he gravitate to her like a moth to a flame?

Maybe the very reason he
should
have been afraid was the very reason he was so drawn to her. When he looked into her eyes, he could see safety and solidity...when he looked into her eyes, he realized that there were some things that were worth the risk. Her last words were still ringing in his head. Maybe he’d had enough easy in his life. Maybe he was ready to try something that would rip his heart out when it ended.

He turned back to the piano and moved his hands over the keys gently, recreating the melody inspired by Melody.

The bus gently rocked back and forth on the road, but the soothing motion failed to lull Melody to sleep. Despite the bus moving more smoothly than she’d expected, it was difficult to acclimate to a cramped, swaying bunk when you were used to a queen-sized bed and the stillness of a house in the Hollywood Hills.

Seattle had gone better than she ever could have imagined. After the pre-concert interview fiasco, she had feared the worst, wondering if she had given up her most secret story for nothing. She had worried that the band would crash and burn, despite her best efforts.

Then she had seen him on stage. Dylan had done exactly what her father claimed all the greats could do: he’d turned it on, right there, in front of her eyes. He was magnetic; the crowd had sat happily in the palm of his hand, breathlessly awaiting his next note, his next word, his next carefully constructed stare. The way he had helped cover for her? Brilliance and bullshit wrapped up in the same package. He knew what he was doing, and even though she
knew
he knew, she couldn’t deny finding him irresistible.

Sighing, Melody pushed open the curtain of her bunk and rolled out onto the floor. It was too early to go to bed, and she was starting to get claustrophobic. She was hungry, so she made her way toward the kitchenette. Resisting Dylan Bennett worked up quite an appetite.

Speak of the devil.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, long legs propped up on a chair. Jesper’s tablet rested on the table in front of him, and he was staring intently at the screen.

“Have you found the secret to the universe on that thing?” she asked, opening the refrigerator. She let out a sigh of contentment when she saw there was some cold fried chicken left.
And a tub of coleslaw. Heaven.
She gathered up her bounty, grabbed a can of Coke, and carried it all to the table.

Dylan wrinkled his nose at her late evening snack. “We ate dinner just a couple hours ago.”

Melody shrugged. “I take my orders from the belly, not the clock.”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘
how is she not fat,’
but Melody chose to ignore him.

“I found something better than whatever secret the universe is keeping to itself,” he finally said aloud, acknowledging her earlier question. He spun the tablet towards her so she could view the screen. “Feast your eyes on
this
baby.”

Melody glanced down at a picture of a cherry-red vintage Mustang. “Is that a ’67?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrows in obvious appreciation. “ It’s a ’68,” he corrected her, “but nice eye, Hopkins.”

“My dad’s obsessed with old cars,” she explained. “I always tell him he’s killing the planet with those gas guzzlers. At least you’re just looking at pictures.”

Dylan frowned. “Actually, I bought this at an auction a few minutes ago. I already called my guy to get it in shape for when the tour’s done.”

Melody’s brow furrowed. “You have a guy?”

“A mechanic guy,” Dylan clarified. “He does all my vintage cars.”

“Meaning you have more than one planet-killer that you drive around?” she asked.

“I own three,” Dylan said.

“Not counting the ’68 Mustang?” she said, eating a huge spoonful of coleslaw.

“Not counting the ’68 Mustang,” he agreed. “Come on, don’t be so pissy. What, do you bike everywhere? Is that how you’re able to eat like Jabba the Hutt without also turning
into
Jabba the Hutt?”

“I don’t bike anywhere,” she said. She ignored the Jabba the Hutt reference, because they were already arguing about fossil fuels and she didn’t want to admit her devotion to all things Star Wars in addition to being a Trekkie as well. “If you must know, I went electric. It’s the responsible thing to do.”

“Right,” he laughed. “You’re so concerned with the environment, yet that coleslaw you’re huffing comes in a planet-killing Styrofoam container.”

“I reuse them in my vegetable garden,” she said.

He blinked. “You what in your what?”

Melody smiled, gesturing to the now empty container. “I use the Styrofoam to grow seedlings, then, after transplanting, I cut them down to use as dividers in the ground. Since it doesn’t degrade—which is the number one reason it’s so terrible in our landfills—it’s actually the perfect thing to use to divide different plants, or to write names on or something.”

“So you’re going to take that container—”

“I’m going to wash it first,” she interrupted. “It’s a breeding ground for bacteria, otherwise.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” Dylan agreed, though she could tell he was being a bit facetious. “Then you’re going to use it to grow, what? Tomatoes?”

“Potatoes, actually,” she replied. “Styrofoam works better for root vegetables. Vine plants need to grow up, so aluminum is best for them.” She took a loud sip of her Coke can. “Plus, tomatoes are a fruit.”

“Potato, tomato,” he said, smirking.

“Very cute,” she said, irritated to realize she was telling the truth. What was happening to her? It had been so easy to resist him before. He had a self-destructive streak as long as the road they traveled, and watching him totally unravel in front of that reporter should have been enough to send her running for the hills. Instead, she kept picturing the way he’d look without any clothes on...and was frightened by how much she wanted to see him that way again under much, much different circumstances.

“Why do you have a garden, anyway?” he asked. “If you’re going to be a touring musician, everything will rot on the vine before you get back to it.”

“I have a friend garden-sitting,” she explained. “He’ll make sure nothing rots.”

“He will, will he?” Dylan asked. Did she detect a note of irritation in his voice? “Does
he—
”
Oh, yes; definitely irritation
“—also take care of other things for you while you’re away?”

“He takes care of my dog,” she said.

Dylan made another one of those pinched faces. “You have a dog?”

“What the hell’s wrong with having a dog?” she snapped.

“Nothing,” he hastened to assure her. “I’ve just always been more of a cat person.”

She laughed. “No surprise there. Low-maintenance pets that require the least amount of love, attention, and time—sounds right up your alley.”

“As a matter of fact, it’s got nothing to do with that. I happen to have a soft spot for cats,” he informed her, scowling. The vehemence in his voice surprised her. “I had this great tuxedo cat when we first got to L.A. I found her living in the alley behind my building and we just…clicked. She was awesome.”

“What happened to her?” Melody asked. She hated when people used the word “was” when telling stories about a pet; it usually meant there was a heartbreaking follow-up story.

Now he definitely looked ashamed. “Um, there was a party and someone left the window open and she got out. I never found her.”

“So she got eaten by coyotes,” Melody surmised. She didn’t care if she sounded overly-harsh; he’d lost a poor, defenseless kitten because he’d been drunk, high, or fornicating with groupies.

“Fuck, no.” Dylan looked perturbed. “I’m sure she found another home, she was really sweet.”

He was like a child who believed his beloved Rover had gone to live on a farm where he’d have lots of other puppies to play with. Melody’s brain knew that she should find this kind of foolishness unattractive, but her stupid heart decided that it was endearing—even sweet, which was a concept she had never associated with Dylan before.

“I’m sure she did,” Melody said soothingly.

“Oh, don’t humor me,” he sighed. “So, what kind of dog do you have, anyway? One of those little terriers that you can carry in your purse?”

“Lennon’s a mastiff,” she told him. “He probably weighs more than you do.”

“Christ, you named him Lennon? Could you be more predictably generic?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What was your cat’s name?”

He looked away, scrubbing the back of his neck. “Keith Richards,” he muttered.

“Ha,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “And
I’m
predictably generic?”

“The cat was a female,” he said. “It’s unusual.”

“
That
makes you predictably generic
and
a hypocrite,” she crowed.

“Oh my God, shut up.”

Melody jumped, shocked to discover that someone else was in the room with them. She turned in her seat, and sure enough, leaning against the kitchenette counter was Tank. He was drinking milk straight out of the carton, his gaze darting back and forth between them as if he were viewing a spectator sport. Melody glanced quickly at Dylan, who also looked taken aback.

Tank laughed. “You really didn’t hear me come in, did you?”

“It was a heated argument,” she offered feebly.

“Yeah, a real nail biter,” Rip said sarcastically, as he emerged from his bunk and walked down the narrow hall towards them. “Your voices carry, by the way.”

“Sorry,” Dylan said. “We’ll try to keep it down.”

“Just don’t bicker so much,” Rip said. “It’s like listening to cats fucking. Sounds awful, and they’re enjoying it a hell of a lot more than you are.”

“Thanks for the visual,” Melody said dryly. “I’m sure it will cure us of any and all desire to bicker in the future.”

“Definitely,” Dylan agreed. He glanced back over at her and shot her a wink. Melody smiled back. She was surprised by how easy their conversation had felt. Their back-and-forth had been natural, relaxed, and...well, there wasn’t any other word for it: happy.

Talking with Dylan Bennett made her happy. Melody didn’t quite understand that strange new development but she knew it was true.

**

Day one of “no bickering” lasted until lunchtime. They had stopped for a meal, and Jesper had gone off to pick up some food at a local, hole-in-the-wall diner. Tank spotted a used record store nearby, and Melody noticed they sold DVDs. They decided to buy a movie to watch on the road. That was when things got heated again.

“No,” Melody said. “I’m sorry, but no.”

“You can’t just say ‘no’,” Dylan scoffed. “This is a discussion. We’re having a discussion.”

“Not when you say stupid shit like that we aren’t,” she said.

“You’re only taking your position because you’re a girl. Daniel Craig is not the best Bond,” he snapped. “Maybe, in another decade—”

“Maybe when he starts acting like an arrogant jerk like your precious Sean Connery you’ll like him better,” she retorted, crossing her arms and offering him a wicked grin. “Then you’d be able to identify with him more.”

Dylan scowled and crossed his arms right back at her. “The way Connery acts in real life has
nothing
to do with his performance as James Bond.”

“You would say that,” she muttered.

“Will you two please just shut
up
,” Jesper said, gesturing at them with the rapidly cooling bags of takeout he held. “Split the difference on Pierce Brosnan and call it good.”

“Pierce Brosnan,” Dylan and Melody scoffed in unison.

Jesper glared at them. “I hate you both.”

“Got one,” Rip said, holding up the DVD he’d just purchased.
The Hot Chick.

Melody and Dylan both groaned.

Tank looked at them sadly. “Your warfare has cost us all dearly.”

Lunch was delicious. Melody took special delight in grossing out Dylan with her deep fried pickles —he eventually tried one and pronounced they had a “fried sour vomit flavor”—, and teasing him about his arugula and walnut salad.

When they finished eating, Dylan grabbed his guitar, which fortunately seemed to have survived his Jimi Hendrix experiment without any damage to its sound. He retreated to a far corner of the bus to write. Rip assured her it was just “part of his emo process” and that they should leave him to it. Jesper retired to his bunk to call his girlfriend—all attempts Melody had made to learn more about her had been effectively stonewalled—and Rip and Tank decided to play a video game. Unfortunately, this left Melody alone with her thoughts.