A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) (32 page)

“What did the vet say?” Melody asked in concern.

Frowning, Dylan sat up and tugged at her arm. “What happened?” He’d be devastated if anything ever actually happened to Lennon.

Melody took his hand as she listened to a lengthy explanation from José. Dylan watched with baited breath as she frowned, gasped, groaned, and finally thanked him and hung up.

“Well? Is he okay?” Dylan demanded.

“He’s fine,” she said, heaving a sigh. “He ate part of the couch.”

“Ah. That ugly couch that I hate?”

Melody glared at him. “You mean the beautiful one that was the first thing I ever bought for my apartment?”

“That’s the one,” Dylan confirmed, grinning. “Good boy, Lennon.”

Melody let out an irritated snort and flung the sheets back, slipping out of the bed. “I’m taking a shower.”

Dylan enjoyed the view as she walked away. Today
was
bittersweet, but he had a feeling that by the end of the night, the sweet would far outweigh the bitter, and he smiled as he visualized the finale of the concert. Then he realized Melody was wet and naked in the next room.

He delighted in her squeal of pleasure when he joined her in the shower.

**

“Would you calm the fuck down? You’re gonna give me an aneurysm,” Rip muttered.

Dylan flipped him off good-naturedly. “This is kind of a big deal, you know.”

“We know, man, but you’re gonna faint or something if you don’t chill,” Tank said.

“You’re like a teenage girl waiting for a cute guy to call her,” Rip agreed.

“Oh, leave him alone,” Jesper chided. “He’s finally growing up—he needs our support now more than ever.”“You can all go to hell,” Dylan said cheerfully. His cell phone saved him from whatever response they might have made as it began to buzz loudly. He took it out and glanced at the caller ID.

Blue.

“Give me a minute,” he said to them, ducking into the hallway outside the greenroom. He answered the phone with a tentative, “Hey.”

“Hey. Wasn’t sure if I was calling too late.” Blue’s voice, though still alien, was also intrinsically familiar to Dylan. The few memories he had of his father from his early childhood were saturated with that same gruff rasp. Decades of whisky and cigarettes had increased the grit in his father’s tone, but it was still good to hear it again after all this time.

“Forty-five minutes till the show,” Dylan answered. “Not sure I’m gonna make it.”

Blue chuckled. “Don’t worry. This is the right move for you, kid. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You’re ambitious...though God knows you didn’t get that from me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You did a great job keeping the Oklahoma alcohol industry afloat,” Dylan joked. “For what, almost thirty years?”

“Forty, smart ass,” Blue mumbled. “What the hell are they gonna do without me?”

“I can’t wait to find out,” Dylan said. It was still a little awkward to express emotion to his father, but, like many other things in his new life, he was enjoying the experience of getting used to it. Melody had been right after all—though it had nearly destroyed him, confronting Blue had given him the power to break his cycle of self-destruction.

And miraculously, Melody had also knocked some sense into Blue during their meeting. It had taken him nearly six months after Dylan’s visit to pick up the phone, but by the time he’d finally plucked up enough courage to talk to his son and ask for help, Dylan had been ready to listen. There were things Blue would have to get used to, also—like sobriety, for instance—but now, he had Dylan and Melody for support.

“Just breathe,” Blue advised. “It’ll turn out fine, you’ll see.”

“Thanks, Blue,” Dylan said quietly.

“Give me a call after,” Blue added. “You know, just to…”

“I will,” Dylan agreed. He hung up and actually heeded his father’s advice: he took a deep breath and reminded himself that everything was going to turn out just fine.

He almost believed it, too, until he heard his sister’s angry voice shouting from around the corner.

Dylan followed the noise, turning onto an adjoining hallway. There, he found Grace and Jesper having a heated argument. Dylan was shocked; he couldn’t remember the last time Jesper had had a heated argument with
any
one—it wasn’t his style. Suddenly, he felt strangely hesitant to interrupt.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, making his presence known to them.

“Hey, D!” Grace approached with arms outstretched and caught him up in a big bear hug. “No problem here.” Though embarrassed by her greeting, he couldn’t help but grin. The only reason why he hadn’t felt totally deprived of maternal affection as a child was because his sister had been all the mother he’d needed.

“You guys seemed a little…intense, that’s all,” Dylan said, looking shrewdly at Jesper over Grace’s shoulder.

“We’re fine,” Jesper said nonchalantly. “Nothing to see here.”

Grace huffed in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re talking to Dad,” she said, holding Dylan at arm’s length again and glaring at him. “
That’s
what we were arguing about. Jesper doesn’t want me to give you shit about it.”

“So don’t give me shit about it,” Dylan said wryly.

“I’m worried. You’ve got something really great right now. You’re happy—happier than I’ve ever seen you, certainly—and I don’t want…”

“You don’t want me to fuck it up all over again,” Dylan finished for her.

Grace winced at his phrasing, but nodded. “You do have a history of that.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” he said. “History.”

“And nothing Dad says is going to change that?” she pressed.

Dylan took her hands in a reassuring manner. “Firstly, I’m not going to let anything he says change the way I feel anymore. Secondly, you don’t have to worry about him causing problems. He’s...well, he’s trying. He’s not father of the year, but he stopped drinking and started going to meetings.” Dylan smiled a little. “He never cashed the check I gave him.”

Grace’s eyes widened. “Well, fuck me.”

“Gross,” Dylan quipped, and his sister smacked him. His mischievous smile faded, and he grew serious again. “He’d like to see you, Grace.”

She sighed. “I’ll think about it. I’m not sure I can handle it yet, after everything.” She gave a helpless little shrug. It reminded him so sharply of Emma that he had to blink back a sudden wave of stinging tears. But Grace, strong, confident Grace, shook off her dark thoughts. She smiled at him and gently brushed the hair back from his forehead, the way she always had when they’d been young.

“You ready?” she asked quietly.

Dylan thought about that.
Was
he ready? He felt a strange sense of peace settle into his heart, obliterating the nerves and fear that had been gnawing at him. Suddenly he was filled with the surety that he was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing.

“I’m ready,” he confirmed.

**

“I don’t think it’s right,” Melody said to her reflection as she gazed at herself in her dressing room mirror. She held a chunk of hair between her fingers, frowning at the green streak.
This color was a mistake, Hopkins. You look like a goddamn Christmas ornament.

Melody had always liked green, but it turned out that green did not like her—and it looked horrid in her hair. She pursed her lips in consideration. “Screw it. I’m done. No colors tonight, just pure, unadulterated Melody.”

A quick shampoo in the sink and a panicked blow-dry later, and Melody was back to normal. Her hair fell in soft curls around her face, and a little bit of hairspray ensured it would stay perfect all throughout the show.

She admired her hair. It had been ages since she hadn’t had some sort of colored streak gracing her locks, but this felt natural...it felt
good.
It turned out Dylan hadn’t been the only one who needed to figure out who he was and what he wanted before true happiness could set in.

“Hey.”

She turned, startled by the unexpected voice behind her, and was surprised to see Rip standing in her doorway. He almost looked shy, a characteristic she had never associated with the tattooed drummer.

“Hey yourself,” she said back. “You ready to rock?”

He blew out a puff of air and stepped forward, offering her a large, flat box which he’d been hiding behind his back. She raised an eyebrow at him, but accepted the strange-looking package. “What’s this?” she asked, holding it up to her ear.

“It’s not ticking,” he growled. “Smart ass.”

“You never know,” she teased. “You could’ve spent the last eight months lulling me into a false sense of security.”

“I
am
a criminal mastermind,” he agreed, “but this is legit.”

She opened the box, not knowing what to expect, and froze when she saw what was inside. It was a platinum record—the single she and Dylan had written had sold over a million copies. Above where the sparkling record nestled, the band picture they’d taken a few weeks before had been carefully framed. That picture said more than words ever could. It meant that Rip had been serious when he had finally welcomed her into the band.

They’d had a big heart-to-heart about a week after Snake’s funeral. Rip had apologized for the way he’d been acting towards her. He had confessed that he’d never really been angry at Melody—and in fact, that he admired her as a musician—but he had been upset by the fact that Dylan and Jesper had seemed all too keen to keep her on as a permanent member of the band.

“Now that you
are
going to be a permanent member of the band, I just wanted to let you know that I never had a problem with you...just the shitty circumstances we found ourselves in,” he’d admitted sheepishly to her. “I know I was a dick to you, but...it was hard for me. Snake was...” He trailed off and closed his eyes, suddenly overcome with emotion.

Melody had reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. He’d looked up at her, startled by the touch.

“He was your brother,” she’d said quietly. “I know it was hard.” He’d offered her a smile—the first genuine smile she’d ever received from him, perhaps—and clapped a hand on her shoulder, too.

“You do his bass lines proud,” he’d told her. “You’ve been with us a while, but...welcome to Dust and Bones, Mel.”

It had taken eight months but now she stood before him, completely floored by the present. “Rip,” she said quietly, looking up at him.

“I know we’ve talked about it a lot,” he mumbled. “And I know it’s water under
and
over the bridge and whatever, but I just…” He swore, running an agitated hand through his hair. “I hate this shit. Can you just take it and never speak of it again?”

Tears welled in Melody’s eyes. She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. He grumbled, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I should have known better,” but nonetheless wrapped his arms around her awkwardly. He held her for all of half a second before pulling away.

“Thank you,” she said, holding the present to her chest. “I mean it, Rip.”

“It wasn’t just me,” he muttered. “I mean, you know that, but…well. I wanted to be the one to give it to you, so you’d know—”

“Is he done having his little bitch moment with you?” asked another voice from the hall. A moment later, Tank poked his head into the room.

Rip glared at Tank as he exited the room, but clapped his bandmate on the shoulder as he strode away, a gesture of camaraderie before the concert.

“You knew about this?” she asked, gesturing to the gift Rip had given her.

Tank shrugged. “Dylan wanted it to be a surprise.”

“He does love his surprises,” she murmured.

Tank snorted. “Come on,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “It’s showtime, baby.”

**

The band opened to a rapturous reception. It was the first time all five of them had played together live since Snake’s death. The boys had hosted an unofficial acoustic set at Snake’s favorite bar in Hollywood, playing Snake’s favorite songs, which was the memorial he would have wanted. But tonight was their triumphant return to the stage.

The crowd stomped and clapped and screamed until it sounded like they would bring the Garden down with their enthusiasm. After the band had finished their set list and gone through three planned encores, Dylan re-took the stage alone, armed with his old acoustic guitar. The one he’d been playing the night he met Melody. The one he’d almost destroyed, the same way he’d almost destroyed his life.

“You’ve been waiting for this one all night,” Dylan said. The crowd went wild—they knew what was coming. The song Dylan and Melody had written together was bigger than anything the band had done before. It had earned them legions of new fans, and was probably the reason they had sold out Madison Square Garden, which was by far the largest venue they had ever played.

“I’m going to make you wait a little bit longer,” Dylan teased. “But I promise, the anticipation will make it sweeter.” More cheers of approval. From where the rest of the band waited in the wings, Melody watched as Dylan hammed it up, smiling fondly at his antics.

“He’s so good up there,” Jesper marveled.

“He’s good everywhere,” Melody said.

“You’re biased,” Rip scoffed.

“What do you guys think?” Dylan asked the crowd. “Should I call my friends back out here?”

Shouts of “Yes!” and excited screams could be heard from the crowd.

“He’s
really
enjoying this,” Tank noted.

“It’s been months,” Melody explained. “Sometimes I think he’s tempted to narrate me at night. ‘
And coming out of the bathroom after a successful shower, the best thing to happen to this bedroom in years, Melody Hopkins
.’”

“Not gonna lie. That is not at all how I pictured you guys spending your nights,” Tank deadpanned.

“On rhythm guitar and vocals, the guy who keeps it all together: Jesper Swenson. Get that sexy Swedish ass out here, Swenson.”

Jesper strolled back out to thunderous applause. Dylan let him riff on his guitar for a few seconds before he retook center stage.

“He’s spent the last decade banging the shit out of those skins, and always makes sure we keep it real: Rip Van Heisel.”