Read Online A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) by Katie Mars - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katie Mars
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for something to clean up the mess.
“My sentiments exactly,” Melody said from right behind him. He hadn’t realized she’d gotten so close. He glanced back at her and forced himself not to laugh. Half the spilled smoothie was decorating the front of her white ribbed tank top.
“You had that coming,” he teased, thinking back to the first night they met.
She was in no mood to banter. “Ew, how can you stand this crap?” she muttered, gagging a little. “It smells like grass and Brussels sprouts.”
“It probably is,” Dylan said. “Wheat grass is good for you.”
“I don’t care,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “I’m not out here to discuss your dietary habits. I’m calling a band meeting—”
“You’re not a member of the band,” Rip reminded her.
“For the remainder of this tour I am,” she said. “But if you want to split hairs, let’s not call it a band meeting. Let’s call it a Come to Jesus for the band.”
“I object to the religious undertones of this conversation,” Tank said.
“No you don’t,” Jesper said, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah,” Tank agreed. “I object because it sounds boring.”
“Okay, that’s it,” she declared. Dylan realized that she actually was mad, though she was acting almost impossibly calm. “I have put up with dirty boy messes, a shower of tampons, and all the silicone-enhanced Mensa candidates that wander the bus in the evening eating my pudding cups. But John Lennon as my witness, I will not abide this offense another night.”
“If you want them to understand you, use smaller words,” Jesper advised with a smirk, nodding his head towards Dylan, Tank, and Rip.
“Stow the smirk, Smirky,” she told Jesper. “You’re part of the problem.”
Jesper looked surprised. “Me? What did I do?”
Melody slammed a piece of paper down on the round table. “It’s what you didn’t do. I had a conversation with my dad this morning.”
Dylan felt something dark and ugly fill his chest, threatening to choke him. He knew what was on that paper. Or rather, what wasn’t on that paper.
“Four songs,” she said, confirming his suspicion. “It’s been six months since your last deadline came and went, and you’ve collectively contributed four songs to your new album.”
“This isn’t really your problem,” Rip said. “Once Snake is back—”
“Once Snake is back, I’ll be exactly what I’ve always been: a huge fan of this band who continues to be disappointed every time you fail to put out new music,” she said.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Dylan snapped. He whipped off his damp, sticky shirt and threw it in the garbage chute. “You know what, don’t even answer that, because I think I already know. You’re Daddy’s little spy, aren’t you?”
Melody pursed her lips. “He asked me how the writing was going. I asked him why he was asking. He told me it wasn’t any of my business. I told him he made it my business by asking. He spilled like a glass of milk.”
“Terrible analogy,” Tank commented.
“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Dylan muttered, rubbing his temples. Already he wanted a drink, and he hadn’t even been awake for twenty minutes.
“I’m sorry, what did you say to me?” Melody asked, her voice deceptively sweet.
“I said, you’re a fucking pain in the ass,” Dylan repeated, this time louder and with more emphasis on the word ‘ass.’
“That’s rich, coming from you,” she scoffed. “Do you have any idea how close you are to ruining your own life?”
“What the fuck would you know about my life?” he challenged, both his voice and his temper rising quickly. “I’ve got a lot of shit to deal with right now, I’m sorry I didn’t have a caring dad to oversee my perfect childhood.”
“Right, sorry. Keeping all that pussy straight when you’re too drunk to stand up after a gig is real hard work. Oh, and let’s not forget all the not writing songs. That takes a lot
“My sentiments exactly,” Melody said from right behind him. He hadn’t realized she’d gotten so close. He glanced back at her and forced himself not to laugh. Half the spilled smoothie was decorating the front of her white ribbed tank top.
“You had that coming,” he teased, thinking back to the first night they met.
She was in no mood to banter. “Ew, how can you stand this crap?” she muttered, gagging a little. “It smells like grass and Brussels sprouts.”
“It probably is,” Dylan said. “Wheat grass is good for you.”
“I don’t care,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “I’m not out here to discuss your dietary habits. I’m calling a band meeting—”
“You’re not a member of the band,” Rip reminded her.
“For the remainder of this tour I am,” she said. “But if you want to split hairs, let’s not call it a band meeting. Let’s call it a Come to Jesus for the band.”
“I object to the religious undertones of this conversation,” Tank said.
“No you don’t,” Jesper said, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah,” Tank agreed. “I object because it sounds boring.”
“Okay, that’s it,” she declared. Dylan realized that she actually was mad, though she was acting almost impossibly calm. “I have put up with dirty boy messes, a shower of tampons, and all the silicone-enhanced Mensa candidates that wander the bus in the evening eating my pudding cups. But John Lennon as my witness, I will not abide this offense another night.”
“If you want them to understand you, use smaller words,” Jesper advised with a smirk, nodding his head towards Dylan, Tank, and Rip.
“Stow the smirk, Smirky,” she told Jesper. “You’re part of the problem.”
Jesper looked surprised. “Me? What did I do?”
Melody slammed a piece of paper down on the round table. “It’s what you didn’t do. I had a conversation with my dad this morning.”
Dylan felt something dark and ugly fill his chest, threatening to choke him. He knew what was on that paper. Or rather, what wasn’t on that paper.
“Four songs,” she said, confirming his suspicion. “It’s been six months since your last deadline came and went, and you’ve collectively contributed four songs to your new album.”
“This isn’t really your problem,” Rip said. “Once Snake is back—”
“Once Snake is back, I’ll be exactly what I’ve always been: a huge fan of this band who continues to be disappointed every time you fail to put out new music,” she said.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Dylan snapped. He whipped off his damp, sticky shirt and threw it in the garbage chute. “You know what, don’t even answer that, because I think I already know. You’re Daddy’s little spy, aren’t you?”
Melody pursed her lips. “He asked me how the writing was going. I asked him why he was asking. He told me it wasn’t any of my business. I told him he made it my business by asking. He spilled like a glass of milk.”
“Terrible analogy,” Tank commented.
“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Dylan muttered, rubbing his temples. Already he wanted a drink, and he hadn’t even been awake for twenty minutes.
“I’m sorry, what did you say to me?” Melody asked, her voice deceptively sweet.
“I said, you’re a fucking pain in the ass,” Dylan repeated, this time louder and with more emphasis on the word ‘ass.’
“That’s rich, coming from you,” she scoffed. “Do you have any idea how close you are to ruining your own life?”
“What the fuck would you know about my life?” he challenged, both his voice and his temper rising quickly. “I’ve got a lot of shit to deal with right now, I’m sorry I didn’t have a caring dad to oversee my perfect childhood.”
“Right, sorry. Keeping all that pussy straight when you’re too drunk to stand up after a gig is real hard work. Oh, and let’s not forget all the not writing songs. That takes a lot
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