Read A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) for Free Online

seat and headed toward the stage to give Melody a congratulatory fist bump, which she returned with a genuine grin.
    “If that’s settled,” Craig said, “I want to talk to the kid for a minute.”
    “And I want to talk to Melody about her musical heroes,” Tank said, wrapping a big, meaty arm around Melody’s shoulders. She practically disappeared beneath his bulk. “Let me guess, Joan Jett?”
    “John Paul Jones,” Melody corrected him as they headed backstage.
    Come on , Dylan thought in desperation, does she have to be a Zeppelin fan, too?
    Rip let out a sigh and headed off on his own, still glued to his phone screen. Jesper hung back. “You good?” he asked Dylan. Dylan gave him a curt nod, and Jesper left to join the others as they quizzed Melody on her musical tastes. Then he turned back to Craig.
    The older man was giving him the kind of long, measured look that made Dylan feel like he was sitting in a living room, waiting for Craig’s daughter to come downstairs so he could take her to prom. Craig did not seem like the family man type, though he had actually mentioned having a daughter once. Dylan had just been too drunk to pay attention to the details.
    “Your album’s only half-finished,” Craig said without preamble.
    “It’s coming along,” Dylan retorted. Maybe Craig would go easy on him, seeing as he’d been humbled enough for one morning.
    “It’s been half-finished and coming along for months now,” Craig continued, obviously feeling that no amount of humbling would be enough.
    “Hop, you know me,” Dylan said. “I come through.” I have to.
    “I do know you, kid,” Craig said. “That’s why we’re having this conversation. You’re a lot of things, but a blocked songwriter isn’t one of them.”
    “Don’t say the b-word,” Dylan said coldly, tensing in agitation.
    “I don’t know what else to call it. Your first album, you gave me thirty finished songs because you didn’t particularly like the other forty you’d written.”
    “I don’t suppose we could just use some of those?” he said, only half kidding.
    “You know why we can’t. That material won’t make sense. It’s outdated. People want to know who Dust and Bones are now, not who they were nine years ago.”
    “The guys are writing,” Dylan said.
    “And they’re not half bad at it,” Craig agreed. “But as much as Jesper is the brains of this operation, you’re supposed to be its heart. You always have been.”
    “What a terrible allocation of resources,” Dylan said jokingly. “Tank should be our heart. I’m sure his is the size of an elephant’s.”
    “Cut the crap,” Craig said, leaning forward. “I’m gonna tell you something, and you’re gonna listen and comprehend every goddamn word.”
    “Hop—”
    “And don’t ‘Hop’ me,” he snapped. “I’m serious. Dead fucking serious.”
    Dylan pursed his lips and balled his fists, but made no argument. Craig was one man he did not want to anger.
    “You’re fucking up,” Craig said. “It’s not just the drinking, and it’s not just the lack of songwriting, or the bad press. It’s all of that combined, and the fat, rotting cherry on top of the shit sundae is that you couldn’t care less.”
    “Not true, bro,” Dylan grated through clenched teeth. “Nobody cares more about this band than I do, you know that.”
    Craig narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized Dylan. “I believe that. But you still won’t clean up your act for it, because that means doing the dirty work.”
    “Who the hell died and made you my father?” Dylan muttered.
    Craig shook his head.
    “Get your shit together,” he continued. “Go on the tour. Play nice with the girl. And write me at least one good radio hit.”
    “That’s pretty mercenary of you, Hop,” Dylan said. “Isn’t it supposed to be about the soul of the music, or something artistic like that?”
    “Stop being a smartass,” Craig said. Dylan sat back and adjusted his collar. “It’s a