A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) by Katie Mars

turn it down, and he had responded by cranking the volume way up. Dylan had offered her a smile of commiseration, but she’d seemed wary of the gesture. And he couldn’t say that he blamed her for that.
    He’d been a massive prick from the moment she’d come onboard, and he’d behaved like such a drunken jackass last night, that he wouldn’t be surprised if she was plotting to quit the band. He had given her zero reasons to believe he’s anything other than an asshole so he’d have to prove himself to her. He would be less of an insensitive dick even if it killed him.
    He glanced down at his phone, where he had pulled up the blog article, and started reading again. It was almost addictive, looking at Melody’s thoughts. He was studying her, figuring out what made her tick—but unlike the women he’d studied in the past, he wasn’t doing it with the intent of getting in her pants. Well, he wasn’t doing it for only that intent.
    As he read, the shadow of a song began materializing within him, something sweet and sour with a killer melody...but it was just a nebulous idea, and its details eluded him. The more he read, the more Dylan found—much to his surprise—that he really wanted to know her. He wanted to know Hop’s daughter, the awesome bass player, the amazing woman who had put herself on the line just to save a bunch of guys who’d treated her like crap. He wanted to know why she put a splash of color in her hair, and he wanted to know what the hell she was doing right now.
    “What are you doing?” he asked her, brain-to-mouth filter clearly offline.
    She looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. “Knitting,” she said simply. So she was—she sat quietly, her hands working to create something from a ball of yarn that sat in her lap.
    “Isn’t that something little old ladies do?” he continued. So much for his vow to be less of an insensitive dick.
    “Yo, some asswipe in Austin says we’re the West Coast’s answer to Bon Jovi,” Rip announced. “I’m explaining to him all the reasons he’s wrong.”
    “Bon Jovi’s a good band,” Tank noted. “Aw, Jesus, they’re gonna vote Tanya off tonight. Son of a bitch, she’s the only idiot in the whole competition who can hit an F-sharp.”
    “I’m not knocking Bon Jovi. They’re great,” Rip conceded. “But comparing us to them is like comparing Metallica to the Beatles.”
    “That comparison is sacrilegious,” Melody told him.
    “Then Lennon would have loved it,” Rip argued back. “What should I tell this idiot?”
    “Stop arguing with fans,” Dylan moaned. “I don’t know what’s worse, when you pick on the trolls or pick up the fan girls.”
    “You’re just bitter you didn’t think of it first,” Rip boasted. “I know! I’ll post that there’s a leak of our new album on the Internet. They’ll waste hours trying to find it.”
    Dylan flinched, but no one saw him, wrapped up as they were with their television shows and Internet chat rooms. No one except old eagle eye with the knitting needles, of course.
    “You okay ?” she mouthed. That simple gesture was so sweet; she was so aware of his desire to keep his humiliation quiet. Dylan felt something inside his chest break a little, and his breath caught in a strange, exhilarating new way. He couldn’t speak, but nodded to her slightly, holding her gaze until she returned it to the red and purple yarn she was knitting.
    Even though Rip was using the potential of their new album to screw with people online, Dylan wasn’t sure there would be a new album, not at the rate he was writing. He had his songwriting notebook out and open, the empty pages taunting him.
    “Hey, Grandma, you do know you can buy sweaters now, right?” Tank said, noticing what Melody was doing.
    “Hey, little girl, you do know you’re not American Idol’s target demo, right?” she shot back.
    “I could have won this thing if we hadn’t gotten our record deal,” Tank bragged.
    Melody’s eyes