A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) (2 page)

Her breathing quickened, almost imperceptibly so. “And what
is
the truth?”

Dylan moved his hand to the heart-shaped pendant she wore around her neck. He touched it gently, more focused on the heat of her skin through the thin cotton fabric of her shirt than the necklace itself. “The truth is that if you give me one night, I will absolutely wreck you.”

Her breath hitched in her throat, but that was the only indication she gave that his words affected her at all. She licked her lips, lowering her lashes as she looked him over.

Dylan felt a hint of smugness welling up inside—oh, yeah. She was
definitely
interested now. He could already see himself spreading her out on his bed, stripping her down to nothing but that cute pendant around her neck and blanketing her body with his own. He was so consumed by that image that he barely noticed she had leaned in even closer, bringing her mouth right to his ear.

“You’re right,” she whispered.

He blinked, almost caught off guard by her admission. Excitement began to grow inside of him. If he was right, there’d be no reason for them to stay in this bar for a second longer—not when they could be naked in his bed.

“Of course I’m right,” he said, pressing his thumb gently to the small of her back to encourage an answer.

“You’re right that I liked the cheesy guy better,” she said, lowering her voice to a tone so soft and sexy that Dylan barely even heard the words before she began to move away.

“Oh, now you’re just ruining it to ruin it,” Dylan protested, calling after her before she could get too far.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she said without looking back.

“Do you really not know who I am?” he asked, the words escaping his mouth before he could stop them. He knew it made him sound like a douchebag, but what else could he say? What else could he do? He couldn’t just let her
go
again.

“You’re a persistent guy who thinks he’s a lot cuter than he actually is,” she answered, finally turning back to him. “Which is saying something because, objectively speaking, you’re pretty fucking cute—though I’m sure you’re well aware of that.” It was true; his high cheekbones, sharp, defined jaw, and deep blue eyes had always had an alluring effect on women. And Dylan had always taken advantage of that fact.

She approached him again, digging in the back pocket of her skintight jeans. Her hand emerged with a twenty-dollar bill, which she held out to him. “Here. To replace your shirt. Or buy another drink. Whatever.”

“Keep it,” he said, though he did reach his hand out to wrap his fingers around hers. With the bill trapped in her palm and their hands locked together, Dylan could feel something sparking between them. He practically burned with the desire to tuck her beneath his arm, to make sure every other asshole in this place kept their goddamn hands to themselves, even to protect her from guys like
himself
. It was enough to make him feel lightheaded, which in turn irritated him.

He didn’t enjoy needing anyone—especially not a girl who wasn’t interested.

Yet, for some reason unbeknownst even to him, he said, “Well, let’s start with the positives and work from there to find some common ground, a conflict resolution technique. You
did
admit that you think I’m cute.”

She laughed again. “See? Persistent.” She shook her hand a little, though she didn’t pull it away from him. “Anyway, just take the cash. I feel bad.”

No way
, Dylan thought to himself. He wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet. “I’ll take it the next time I see you.”

She gave him a flat look that implied she thought he was slow. Enunciating each word as though she were speaking to a small child, she said, “There. Won’t. Be. A. Next. Time.”

He shrugged and let go of her hand, leaving the twenty dollar bill in her palm. “There will be if you want me to take that.”

Her lips parted, like she was about to argue, but she simply shook her head instead, a tiny and mysterious smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It made Dylan want to taste that mouth, to draw the breath right out of her lungs.

“Until next time, then,” she finally said, with a hint of something undefined in her voice—excitement? Trepidation? Whatever it was, it wasn’t something she was looking to explore at that moment. She was already on the move again, slipping away from him for the third time that night.

“Tell me your name, at least,” he called, raising his voice to be heard.

She looked back at him over her shoulder, her red hair falling over one side of her face as that damned sexy streak of blue framed the green of her eyes. “Melody,” she said after a moment. “My name is Melody.”

Of course
.

Melody.

Dylan rolled the name around in his mind, grinning like a crazed idiot as he watched her exit the bar. Melody was almost inconceivably hot, but he had been with tons of inconceivably hot women before. He was forced to admit that there was more to it than that; she was the kind of woman that could haunt him if he let her. Dylan was determined not to let that happen. He was determined to win her over. Then they would thoroughly enjoy a few nights of wild passion together, and when things eventually ended—like they always did—they’d both be satiated and ready to part ways afterward. As was his way.

He wasn’t going to let this temporary rejection discourage him, because that’s exactly what it was: temporary. She’d come back to him—and even if she didn’t, he’d find her eventually.

However, that still left him with the problem of nothing and nobody to do
tonight
.

“
There
you are.”

Dylan turned to find both the punk rocker with the magenta hair and the leggy brunette standing side by side in front of him. They each wore affected pouts on their faces, but he knew they weren’t actually upset. They wouldn’t have sought him out if they were.

“Ladies,” he said, grinning again. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He motioned to the bartender one last time and ordered two more drinks, one for each of the girls—a Jack and Coke and a Cosmo. The last vodka he’d ordered for himself was still sitting untouched on the bar.

The girls were only too happy to follow him, their pouts disappearing when they realized that he was still interested in them. They didn’t even seem to care that he split his attention between the two of them. Dylan easily fell into his flirtatious routine once more. He had his hand settled comfortably on the brunette’s ass and was going in for the kill with the magenta-haired hottie when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned, and found himself facing the last person he expected to see—Melody. A slow grin started to spread across his lips. Maybe she’d realized who he was and had come back to resume the heated dance they’d begun earlier.

But those thoughts fled his mind as soon as he met her eyes. She was
livid
.

“So much for next time,” she said, practically spitting the words out. She held the twenty-dollar bill from earlier up and shoved it into his front pocket. “Enjoy your night, girls.”

Dylan found himself laughing, in part as a defense mechanism and in part at the sheer absurdity of—of
all
this. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me. I don’t know what level of
commitment
you expected from a ten minute bar conversation but...”

She walked away, not bothering to look back this time.

Normally, that would have been fine. Dylan still had two bombshells clinging to him; they’d be interesting enough to get him through the night. But for some completely insane reason, Dylan felt an unnamed feeling settle inside him at the sight of Melody disappearing, yet again. Was it annoyance? Frustration? Discontent? Disappointment? Whatever it was, it pissed him off.

“Well, thanks for the
permission
!” he yelled after her, though he tried to convince himself he didn’t care whether she even heard him or not. Turning back to the girls at his side, he wrapped one arm around each of them. “We were just getting out of here anyway, right, girls?”

They nodded enthusiastically in unison.

Dylan frowned to himself. Less than a minute ago, he’d been looking forward to passing the night with these two beauties, but now there was a strange tightness settling into his chest. The comfort and ease he’d regained before Melody’s sudden reappearance had vanished once again. He almost felt like he shouldn’t be doing this, but fuck if he was going to let a disappointed look from Melody’s bold eyes stop him from enjoying himself. She had no right to judge him, and he didn’t give a damn if she did.

“Come on,” he said to the girls. “Let’s go meet some rock stars.”

**

Dylan ran up the stairs and knocked.

“I’m sorry, sir,” a voice with a fake British accent sang from behind the closed door. “I’m going to need the password.”

“Just open the door, you douche,” Dylan growled.

“No, that was
last
week’s password,” the disembodied voice continued. “You’ll just have to keep guessing if you want in, Dyl—I mean, suspicious stranger.”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “If you don’t open the door, I’ll tell Rip what
really
happened to his favorite—”

Instantly, the door swung wide open. Inside the loft, Tank grinned sheepishly and swept his arm back, inviting Dylan and the girls inside. Dylan swayed momentarily in the doorway, caught off-guard—as was prone to happen when he’d had a few drinks too many—by the sheer size of his guitarist. Dylan topped out at six-foot-two himself, but Tank was six-foot-four and built like a linebacker.
All muscle, no common sense—
that
was how they’d half-jokingly described him in the past, but he’d really cut back on the partying in the past year.

“Smart move,” Dylan said as he ushered the girls inside.

“Oh my God, you’re Tank,” the brunette whispered, almost reverently.

“Where’s Jesper?” the other asked, eyes darting wildly around the loft. Her pupils were dilated with arousal and it was clear what she wanted Jesper for.

Dylan rolled his eyes again. “Don’t worry about him,” he told her as he casually strolled through the hallway.

She pouted. That expression was getting old fast. It grew more and more unattractive each time she pulled her lips downwards. “But—”

“Let me get you girls another drink,” Dylan interrupted. He was too tired to deal with their antics. “Rip? We stocked up from last week?”

Rip glanced up from his computer. The mess of unruly brown hair sitting atop his head bobbed with his movement. “Last week? Dude, I had to stock up after last
night
,” he said, scoffing.

Dylan jerked his thumb towards the bar. “Have at it, girls.”

They scampered off happily, giggling softly and walking crooked paths across the room to help themselves to the rows of mostly full liquor bottles.

“Where
is
Jesper?” Dylan asked as soon as he was sure the girls wouldn’t return to interrupt.

“Where do you think?” Tank shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Phone sex with the ol’ ball and chain, of course.”

“They’re not married,” Dylan said automatically.

“
Yet
,” Rip said, his eyes already returning to his laptop screen. “He’s giving his future wife some good verbal lovin’ as we speak.”

Dylan nodded and took a few steps forward to collapse onto the black leather couch positioned in the center of the room.

The loft had once been part of an industrial building, and as a result, the acoustics were ideal for rehearsals. Tank had secured the place for the band with his share of their first royalty check. He’d even paid for renovations, turning the back rooms into dorm-style sleeping areas—though in the years since they moved in, very little sleeping had ever taken place back there. Sex, drinking, jamming, and writing—those were the steps in the creative cycle of a rock band, and those back rooms have witnessed that very cycle countless times.

Unfortunately, for the past few months, Dylan had found that final step more like a stumbling block.

Writing.
Ugh
.

He could spend his nights singing and drinking and flirting with random girls, but that didn’t change the fact that the band’s label was getting antsy about a new album. In fact, his bandmates were, too, though they’d been good about keeping quiet on that front while Dylan struggled to put words on paper.

Well, mostly quiet. Snake wasn’t quiet about it; Snake wasn’t quiet about
anything
. Speaking of…

“And where’s Snake?” Dylan asked, craning his neck up to look at the other guys in the room.

“Who the hell knows, bro,” Rip said absently rubbing a hand across the tattoo on his forearm, an instinctual habit of his. The ink depicted a snake wrapped around a knife. Rip had gotten it to cover up a scar Snake had given him when they’d been kids, after they’d had a particularly nasty fight. It had been his first tattoo, one of the many that adorned his body now. Each piece of art he sank into his skin told a story, and most of those stories involved his complicated relationship with Snake.

“There’s only one thing we currently know ’bout his whereabouts. He’s probably drinking something,” Tank said.

Dylan barked out a sarcastic laugh. “Probably
snorting
something, you mean.”

“True that.”

Just then the girls stumbled out of the kitchen, still giggling. They were leaning against each other, as if they’d fall over without the support. Dylan wondered if they would’ve fallen over right there on the street if he hadn’t let them hold onto his arms as he walked them home from the bar.

Home.

Dylan scoffed at himself. Yeah, as if this was a
home
. He tried not to think about it often—how out of the five of them only the youngest, Tank, had ever bothered trying to plant his roots somewhere. Even though they all lived here at the loft, more or less, the deed was in Tank’s name, and the rest of them were more like nomads than anything else. Even Jesper, the only one of their group who’d managed to keep a relationship longer than a month, tended to live out of hotels when he wasn’t at the loft.

It usually wasn’t a problem. Dylan didn’t
usually
find himself thinking about things like home; things he didn’t have. This current arrangement worked fine, anyway. Creating music was easier when they all lived in the same space.