Read Online A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) by Katie Mars - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katie Mars
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your solo album when you put one out,” the brunette promised.
Dylan wondered if he’d been transported into a parallel reality where stuff like this actually happened.
“She’s really cute,” Melody said, after the psych major had gathered her belongings and left the bus. “Good choice, Bennett. The girl Rip was with scared me. Anyway, see you in the morning.”
She disappeared into her bunk before Dylan could remember how to string words together into sentences. Her total lack of jealousy—or even mild irritation—baffled him. He thought about the unexpected psychoanalysis he received. Was that really what was different about Melody? The fact that she was smart enough to know he was bad news? Jesus, was he that much of an asshole?
He needed a shower and he needed to think. He had to figure his shit out before he went completely insane.
Dylan slid out of bed as the bus started up. If they were heading out, then the little brunette must have been the last groupie on-board. He popped open the storage bin over his bunk, revealing a plain black leather case inside. That case was travel-worn; it had been dragged through every Podunk town in existence over the past decade-and-a half. He climbed back into his bunk, pulled his curtain securely closed, and settled down with his back against the wall, feeling the sway of the road as the bus rambled down the highway. Dylan took the guitar out of the case and reverently ran his fingers over the faded wood.
It was the first guitar he had bought with his own money. He had gotten it from a pawn shop in Nowheresville, Oklahoma, way back when the only things he’d had were dreams and a chip on his shoulder. Dylan strummed the acoustic guitar slowly, lovingly, trying to find a melody. You already found one. She just doesn’t like you.
Give me some song lyrics or shut the fuck up, asshole inner voice.
His inner monologue, his creative muse, his logical brain: all were silent.
He tossed the guitar aside with more force than he’d intended, wincing as it bounced off the side of his bunk, the strings reverberating with a soft, low twang . Then, he reached into the case and pulled out a bottle of bourbon.
Even if he was doomed to the tortured life of a blocked songwriter, he could at least get a good night’s sleep.
**
Dylan’s mood had not improved after only a few hours of sleep and a killer hangover. In fact, it had significantly worsened. When he awoke, he went straight for the fridge, irritated to discover that his green machine health drink was buried behind bottles of high sugar smoothies and soft drinks.
Seriously, if all she drinks is this crap, how is her body so...ugh .
The whole thing made him crazy. His skin felt tight, like something was constricting it, and he was dehydrated from his midnight bourbon binge. He popped open a bottle of water and drank half of it in one swallow. If he attempted the green machine first, it might come back up again.
The guys were already awake. Jesper, as usual, was reading on his tablet. Rip was heating something up in the microwave, and Tank was tuning a mandolin, of all things. Dylan decided not to ask.
Though he desperately wanted to, he forced himself not to think about what Melody was doing. But, as if summoned by the thought alone, he suddenly heard a muffled female voice cursing from the back of the bus. He didn’t want to look. He told himself not to look. Nothing good would come of looking.
He looked. Melody flung aside the curtain around her bunk and all but fell out of the bed, ass first. Boy did she look mad.
Boy did it turn him on.
No. Just ignore her. As she got to her feet, he made a concerted effort to put her out of his mind. He turned away and grabbed the green machine smoothie from the fridge. He twisted off the top, brought it to his mouth and—
Crash! The bus hit a pothole, and Dylan found himself wearing a bright green drink for the second time in a month.
“Shit,” he muttered, staring around
Dylan wondered if he’d been transported into a parallel reality where stuff like this actually happened.
“She’s really cute,” Melody said, after the psych major had gathered her belongings and left the bus. “Good choice, Bennett. The girl Rip was with scared me. Anyway, see you in the morning.”
She disappeared into her bunk before Dylan could remember how to string words together into sentences. Her total lack of jealousy—or even mild irritation—baffled him. He thought about the unexpected psychoanalysis he received. Was that really what was different about Melody? The fact that she was smart enough to know he was bad news? Jesus, was he that much of an asshole?
He needed a shower and he needed to think. He had to figure his shit out before he went completely insane.
Dylan slid out of bed as the bus started up. If they were heading out, then the little brunette must have been the last groupie on-board. He popped open the storage bin over his bunk, revealing a plain black leather case inside. That case was travel-worn; it had been dragged through every Podunk town in existence over the past decade-and-a half. He climbed back into his bunk, pulled his curtain securely closed, and settled down with his back against the wall, feeling the sway of the road as the bus rambled down the highway. Dylan took the guitar out of the case and reverently ran his fingers over the faded wood.
It was the first guitar he had bought with his own money. He had gotten it from a pawn shop in Nowheresville, Oklahoma, way back when the only things he’d had were dreams and a chip on his shoulder. Dylan strummed the acoustic guitar slowly, lovingly, trying to find a melody. You already found one. She just doesn’t like you.
Give me some song lyrics or shut the fuck up, asshole inner voice.
His inner monologue, his creative muse, his logical brain: all were silent.
He tossed the guitar aside with more force than he’d intended, wincing as it bounced off the side of his bunk, the strings reverberating with a soft, low twang . Then, he reached into the case and pulled out a bottle of bourbon.
Even if he was doomed to the tortured life of a blocked songwriter, he could at least get a good night’s sleep.
**
Dylan’s mood had not improved after only a few hours of sleep and a killer hangover. In fact, it had significantly worsened. When he awoke, he went straight for the fridge, irritated to discover that his green machine health drink was buried behind bottles of high sugar smoothies and soft drinks.
Seriously, if all she drinks is this crap, how is her body so...ugh .
The whole thing made him crazy. His skin felt tight, like something was constricting it, and he was dehydrated from his midnight bourbon binge. He popped open a bottle of water and drank half of it in one swallow. If he attempted the green machine first, it might come back up again.
The guys were already awake. Jesper, as usual, was reading on his tablet. Rip was heating something up in the microwave, and Tank was tuning a mandolin, of all things. Dylan decided not to ask.
Though he desperately wanted to, he forced himself not to think about what Melody was doing. But, as if summoned by the thought alone, he suddenly heard a muffled female voice cursing from the back of the bus. He didn’t want to look. He told himself not to look. Nothing good would come of looking.
He looked. Melody flung aside the curtain around her bunk and all but fell out of the bed, ass first. Boy did she look mad.
Boy did it turn him on.
No. Just ignore her. As she got to her feet, he made a concerted effort to put her out of his mind. He turned away and grabbed the green machine smoothie from the fridge. He twisted off the top, brought it to his mouth and—
Crash! The bus hit a pothole, and Dylan found himself wearing a bright green drink for the second time in a month.
“Shit,” he muttered, staring around
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