Scarred Melody: A Rockstar Romance: Bold Melodies Book One

by Heather E. Andrews

  Except when it came to my feelings. Those took practice. And music.

  A roar sounded outside the door. Pushing aside the curtain once again, I finally saw him! There he was! I jumped excitedly. I’m sure anyone looking would mistake me for a five-year-old getting cotton candy at the fair.

  Skyler Dalton pulled up to my house on a giant motorcycle. He looked like James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause, but with more muscles and longer hair.

  The bike looked custom. How could it not be? The man was 6’5” according to his Wikipedia page. I can’t imagine just any motorcycle would fit his frame. The machine was a deep blue with red-orange flames on the gas tank and the handlebars were high up.

  I couldn’t move. I stared at the man I’d hero-worshiped since I was seven years old. He put the kickstand down and removed his helmet, letting his long hair tumble down. He took a second to pull his hair back to a man bun, keeping it out of his face. His hair was deep brown with sun-bleached streaks.

  In one slow, sexy movement, he lifted his leg and dismounted. I could only see his profile, but it was already better than the cardboard cutout I’d stuffed in my closet this morning. His jaw was square and covered with a thick five o’clock shadow. I watched intently as he rubbed his big hands across his face, his long fingers covered in thick silver rings.

  His dark jeans were tight across his thighs and held up by a belt with a skull and crossbones buckle; on his feet were a pair of beat-up chucks. I could see the outline of his chest under the tight white T-shirt he had on. A worn leather jacket finished the look.

  I haven’t spoken to him yet and I’m ready to throw my panties at him like a sex-starved groupie.

  Moving slowly, like a man with all the time in the world, he unstrapped a ragged guitar case from the back of his bike and stood staring at my house like a dead sexy vagabond artist.

  Dammit!

  Did the man have to get more gorgeous?

  My muscles clenched in panic. How was I supposed to do this? My thoughts took off in all directions, just watching him saunter toward my door. The man sauntered. Walk was too banal a word for what those legs were doing.

  They knew me across the industry for my laser focus. I could tune out anything. But right now? It felt like my laser was blowing up.

  Touching my face, I checked to see if I attached my mask properly so my scars wouldn’t freak him out. I pulled my hair to the side, over the mask and my mangled ear. It was a simple black mask held on by straps I hid under my hair. I never wore it around the house when I was alone; it made me sweat in the heat, especially if I had it on too long. I liked to think of myself as a female Phantom of the Opera without the psycho stalker vibe.

  Taking a deep breath, I shook out my arms and tapered down the fissures of excitement.

  This was just any other musician, Elsie. He’s coming to you for help, not to be eaten alive by your libido.

  Get a grip, Clarke!

  Skylar Dalton is out of your league. He’s thirty-eight to my twenty-four. He’s a rock star and I’m a hermit. He’s beyond gorgeous, and one entire side of my body was scarred. I’m hardly the type of woman gracing his side on the red carpet.

  Closing my eyes, I mentally took a second to pull up my big girl panties and opened the door before I worked myself up even further.

  He stood before me, his hand poised to knock. Aviator sunglasses covered his eyes, making it hard to catch his vibe.

  Then his body stiffened—he was reacting to something. Was it my mask? It had to be my mask; other than that, I was your average run-of-the-mill chick.

  “Skyler Dalton?” I asked, trying to break his attention.

  “The one and only.” He removed the sunglasses and eyed me slowly from bow to stern. “I’m here to see Elsie Clarke.”

  I forced a smile on my face and held out my hand, hoping I exuded a confidence I wasn’t feeling.

  “It’s really nice to meet you. I’ve had a cabin made ready for you and your band. Everything’s stocked. If you come inside, I’ll show you the studio and other…”

  Skyler held out his hand to stop me. “Whoa, whoa, whoa…you’re Elsie Clarke?”

  “Yes. Is something wrong?” I pulled my hand back. He was obviously not going to shake it.

  Turning away from me, Skyler grabbed the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

  “Goddammit, shit, motherfucker.” He cursed under his breath. “You can’t be serious?”

  Uh oh. He’s upset. Before I could react, I watched him pull out his cellphone and walk away from me.

  “Cam? She’s a goddamn kid. This is not happening!” He growled into the phone.

  A kid? I took a step back and tried to absorb what was happening. Did he object to my age? Sure, you could describe me as small and unsophisticated, but I wasn’t a damn kid! I could drive, drink, vote and gamble. All on the same day if I wanted to!

  I looked down at myself. Okay, the Hello Kitty shirt and jeggings probably weren’t helping my case, but we were in the desert and the studio dress code was always casual.

  “I’ve never seen her at the awards, Camille. Did you verify that? I call bullshit. And what the hell is wrong with her face?” Skyler had walked away from me, but I could hear him ranting to whoever Camille was.

  I guess he noticed my deformity already.

  Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest, bracing for the rest of his conversation.

  How dare he? I was taking as much risk as he was. A new partnership was never a guarantee. We were only as good as our last album in this business.

  “Call the label, Cam. Figure this shit out!”

  I’d heard enough. Stepping back, I slammed the door as hard as I could. This was bullshit! He should be licking my boots. I’ve won more Grammys than he has and I’m fourteen years younger.

  This was not the Skyler Dalton I’d imagined. I’m not stupid—I know he’s not perfect. We worked in the music business; perfect was boring. But this? This wasn’t the man who wrote Memories of My Wishes; this wasn’t the man who listened to me talk about my problems every night from his cardboard prison in my room.

  He took one look at me and decided I was unworthy. There was no conversation to see if a collaboration would work. He wouldn’t even shake my hand!

  ‘She’s a goddamn kid.’

  ‘What the hell is wrong with her face?’

  Slamming my ass on the bench in the hall, memories of another blatant rejection swam in my head. Remembering how I put myself out there for the world to see and the shame I felt. It was one thing to get booed off a stage or suffer the onslaught of comments on YouTube by a horde of trolls. But in my home? I wouldn’t stand for it.

  A knock on the door jarred me from the downward spiral. Bracing myself, I opened the door. I crossed my arms and tried valiantly to keep my face blank of emotion.

  Skyler stood holding his guitar case, embarrassment and chagrin on his face. Running a hand over his face, he had the decency to be discomposed.

  “I’m sorry.” His eyes met hers. “I was surprised when I saw you. You look a lot younger than I expected and this whole thing is such a goddamn mess. Can we start over?”

  I let him stew for a moment while I thought about it.

  He’d shattered my expectations in a matter of minutes. I knew I had to take some responsibility. Skyler Dalton may be gorgeous and a rock star, but he was just a man. We’re all entitled to make mistakes.

  My natural instinct was to run and hide, slam the door in his face and pretend it didn’t happen. My autism made me sensitive to social situations and the feelings they brought up. I was working on it with my therapist. Maybe if I pulled this off, I’d have something to brag about.

  Working with Skyler Dalton was a dream of mine as much as it scared the crap out of me; I owed it to myself to set aside this faux pas and give our working arrangement a chance.

  Without saying a word, I held out my hand one more time.

  Skyler nodded and to
ok it, his huge hand swallowing mine. The feel of his skin on mine was surreal, and it took everything in me not to visibly react.

  “Hi, I’m Skyler Dalton, musician, and flaming asshole.”

  I laughed. “Nice to meet you Skyler Dalton, flaming asshole.”

  He huffed, his cheeks turning red as he managed a small smile.

  “My name is Elsie Clarke. From what I understand, I’m your only hope.”

  Taking Off the Mask

  Skyler

  I stared at the young woman holding her door open for me.

  What in the hell was I walking into?

  She looked like she’s sixteen, but Camille insisted she was a mature twenty-four who had, in fact, won ten Grammy awards for her songwriting. I’ve yet to see a mature twenty-four-year-old in my life, so I reserved the right to withhold judgment.

  If I’d seen this woman at the awards shows, I’d remember. She was tiny, yes, but she screamed jail bait with some major tits and ass. She dressed like a teenager, but her curves were all woman. That explained the stiffness in my crotch.

  When did I become a dirty old man?

  Her legs were slim, but round in all the right places, covered in those weird leggings that looked like jeans. I’ll never understand women’s fashion. The ridiculous shirt she wore had that stupid cat tweens put on their lunchboxes and stopped short of her waist, revealing a sliver of pale skin I wouldn’t expect to see here in the desert. Her deep green eyes were full of attitude. Long dark hair was pulled to one side, partially covering the mask she wore.

  She looked like a teenager. Which made the stiffness in my crotch even more concerning. In fact, I was beginning to feel like a dirty old creep. If this kept up, I’d have to buy a trench coat.

  Why was she wearing a mask? Was it some sort of artist’s expression through wardrobe kind of thing? Channeling her inner opera villain?

  My reaction to her startled me. At first, I thought she was some sort of groupie or assistant. This was Elsie Clarke. Clarke Records’ secret weapon.

  My mouth reeked from the stink of the foot I’d shoved in it.

  More embarrassing than my physical reaction was the ass I made of myself. I’m not the easiest person to work with, but people rarely figured that out before day three.

  “Can I come in?” I put on my best rock star grin, hoping to smooth things over. Maybe all that charm the tabloids claimed I have would come in useful. I’ve yet to meet a woman I couldn’t charm out of her socks…and sometimes her pants.

  Elsie stepped back, opening the door so I could walk through.

  The house was stunning. Painted a canary yellow, it didn’t contrast dramatically with the desert milieu. Unlike most of the houses I’d seen on the way up, there was a lot of green around it; clearly, they did not object to wasting water.

  The foyer had a high ceiling with a skylight above. In fact, there were windows and skylights everywhere; natural light flooded the place.

  At first, I’d been hesitant to come. It felt like I was giving away the upper hand coming to her territory, but as I was riding out, the stress of the city melted away. Twentynine Palms is a small tourist destination, but he felt a decided lack of the LA drama.

  As she walked through the house, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her ass. It jiggled a little as she moved, making my groin clench. I bit my lip to regain control.

  I followed her, getting a better look at the rest of the house. It had an old-world western vibe to it. The tables and bookcases were made of carved wood with Native American designs; the couches and chairs were a light brown, playing nicely off the taupe walls. Pops of color scattered around the room with art and other knick-knacks.

  She walked into an open space kitchen that was bigger than my first apartment. “Can I get you something to drink? It had to be a hot ride on that motorcycle.” Her eyes held less malice than five minutes ago. That’s a good sign.

  “Water would be great.” I loved long rides on my Harley, but it’d been a while since I’ve been out. My throat was dry from the desert air and my ass was sore.

  Elsie opened the fridge and retrieved the water. She thumped it on the counter, her irritation not fully dissipated, apparently.

  “Look, I’m sorry.” I pulled at my neck in frustration. “I didn’t mean to go off half-cocked like that. I’ve never worked with a professional songwriter, so I don’t know what I’m doing. And it gets my goat because the label is really pushing this because my last album…”

  “Sunk your battleship?” Her eyebrow arched.

  What was with all these metaphors? At least no one was saying it sucked. Other than the tabloids. And Rolling Stone. And TMZ. And…

  Dammit.

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” I sighed.

  Her arms crossed over her chest, her stance was defensive, but her eyes met mine and never wavered.

  “No, I can definitely say that. You sold an eighth of the units the label produced in six months, the tour venues only sold to half capacity. Barely any radio play. Have they even made a video yet? Yeah, you’re sunk. As the front man for the label’s premiere act, even if it is a new solo venture, you should do better.”

  Tilting my head back, I stared at the glass ceiling and soaked in her honesty. She was less diplomatic than Camille. Coming from her, it felt like I was in high school being held after class because I bombed my chemistry test.

  “Yeah, I guess that about sums it up, huh?” There was nothing I could say to defend myself. Facts were facts.

  Elsie’s features relaxed, her eyes softening. Was that compassion?

  “One thing I’ll never do is lie to you, Skyler. If something blows chunks, I’m going to tell you. Nothing good ever comes out of kissing someone’s ass. It just inflates their ego and blindsides them after the release.”

  Thinking back to the people I had working on my last album leaves a sour taste in my mouth. They never told me once I sounded wrong; that it wasn’t working. They followed my lead and let me make all the decisions. At first, I thought it was great. Now, I was like the Pied Piper lost in the hills without a GPS.

  It wasn’t the same without Benny. There was no resistance, no redirection when I went on a tangent. No laughter. No fun.

  “In return, I expect you to be honest with me.” Elsie looked to me for confirmation, so I nodded my understanding. “If something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. You also need to remember this is a creative process. I’m going to be asking you questions—personal questions—and if you want a chance at producing something genuine, it would serve you best to be honest with me.”

  “What type of questions?” I wasn’t going to just rattle off my dick size. It’d been easy to talk to Benny. He knew everything about me. There were no secrets. Including dick size, but that had more to do with sharing a tour bus than playing twenty questions. Letting someone else in…that was a prospect I hadn’t expected.

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” She didn’t elaborate.

  What choice do I have? I’d already fucked up and it was sink-or-swim time.

  Goddamn battleship.

  “Okay. I get you.” I nodded. Just do as you’re told, Dalton.

  Elsie dropped her crossed arms. Her stance became less defensive at my willingness to do what’s necessary.

  “As for me, I don’t know what you’ve heard. Yes, I’m young, but I’ve been writing music since I was eight. I’ve won a few awards and the songs make money. I’m not a sure thing per se, but I’m a damn sight better than what you’re coming from.” Her humility and reassuring voice comforted me.

  It was unusual to see an artist be so modest. Elsie definitely outgunned me on the writing front. Camille said she won her first Grammy when she was seventeen. Her tracks didn’t just make money, they made millions.

  I wasn’t used to people in the business not throwing their achievements on the table like poker chips at the casino. Oh, you’ve got a Grammy? Well, I’ll raise you a Grammy and an MTV Music award!

 
; “So you listened to the album? Was there anything you liked?” It couldn’t be all bad. I’d been in a grief-stricken, sleep-deprived haze a good portion of the time, but it sold some units.

  “I’m familiar with your catalog.” Clever girl, evading the question. “Anyone in the business is familiar with your old band. MD has been a leading staple in the industry shortly after you started. The problem is that this was not an MD record. It’s a Skyler Dalton record. Yes, half the songs sound like a rehash of MD’s older stuff, but the other half was sloppy.”

  “MD is really all I’ve known as far as sound goes.”

  “Bullshit,” she snorted.

  My head jerked in surprise. “What do you mean, bullshit?”

  “You spent two years at UCLA before you met Benny and released Underwater. You’ve been in some sort of musical group or class since you were five years old. Your mother was the damn choir teacher; there’s no way you haven’t been exposed to other sounds. Something out there will resonate with you, personally, and not in the same way MD did.”

  I didn’t know whether to be creeped out or flattered by how much she knew about me. Another one of the perks of being a celebrity–everyone knew your business. She had me at a severe disadvantage. Was there anything she didn’t know?

  She was right, too. MD’s sound always moved me and I felt in tune with it, but only when I’m on stage with Benny and the guys. I never sang our songs when I was by myself and just let loose. The most comfortable part about them was their familiarity and the memories with Ben.

  Taking a sip of my water, I looked Elsie directly in her green eyes. I didn’t feel like explaining the reason I sucked so badly was Benny’s OD. Losing him so soon after my mom’s death really blew a hole in my heart.