Scarred Melody: A Rockstar Romance: Bold Melodies Book One

by Heather E. Andrews

  “You sucked his dick?” Amelia shouted. I waved my arms at her to quiet her down. Why did I feel like I was fourteen again talking about how Jimmy Pierce pulled my braid in gym class?

  “Was it everything you thought it would be?”

  “It was more. They really don’t describe the female orgasm that well in health class. We should really write the school board. Women should know what they’re walking into.”

  “Girl, we enforce that in the schools, and a whole lotta women are gonna be walking into things with expectations. And expectations lead to living in disappointment later in life. Better not to get anyone’s hopes up, know what I mean?” Amelia snarked.

  “Anyway, Skyler confronted Rush because he went to Camille about us. He got really angry. Of course, they said some things that got me thinking…”

  “Oh shit, Elsie thinking isn’t always a great thing. Whatever you do, don’t think!” She sighed. “What did he say?”

  “He said Skyler only wanted to do those things because I’m the only woman here. I mean, it would make sense…” I waved at my face.

  “Here we go again. Elsie, the man is notorious for not doing anything he doesn’t want to do. If he needed a quick lay and didn’t want to be with you, he’d have gone to the local bar there in Twentynine and picked up a townie. Skyler Dalton doesn’t settle for whoever is available.”

  I thought about that for a moment. She was right. I knew she was. “I hate that my self-confidence is so low. After they argued, I ran to my room, of course. Skyler came and found me and we fought.”

  “You fought? You don’t fight. What did he say?”

  “He said I can’t change the world, that I have to be the one to change. That I have to make my own beauty in the world, that no one else is going to do it.”

  “He’s right.”

  “I know he is! But how the hell am I supposed to change, Amelia? I can’t take away these scars. I can’t turn myself into something I’m not.”

  “El, it’s not about changing how you look, it’s about changing how you feel about yourself. You know, for someone at genius-level intelligence, some things just fly right over your head.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “You could walk through the mall right now, and no one would bother you if you felt different about yourself. Do you know why? Because it wouldn’t matter. Someone looking at you funny? Just smile and say hello. They’re going to look at you, El, because people who’ve survived burns as bad as yours rarely survive.”

  That’s what the therapist told me growing up. That adults and kids who just stared weren’t doing it to be cruel, just out of curiosity and fear it could happen to them. It always made me feel like I was under a microscope.

  “And the jerks that point and laugh? What about them?”

  “El, those people are assclowns. Would you ever want to be friends with someone who’d do that to a person? Even if they didn’t have burns?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Exactly. If someone says something, it says more about them than you. Honestly, I’d consider it a litmus test on who to associate with. That’s one reason I’m ready to kick Rush out the door. I don’t want a lil’ fucker like that working for Clarke Records. It doesn’t reflect well on us.”

  “I hate it when you make sense.”

  “I know, I hate it too. But I got you, girl. Now, when you come to LA for the music video, we’re going to work on that self-confidence of yours. I’ll have you strutting your stuff in no time.”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head, scared at what Amelia was capable of. But what other choice did I have? I couldn’t keep on like this. It wasn’t sustainable. I didn’t want to end up dead in the kitchen, eaten by cats, only for the housekeeper to find me.

  “Okay. I admit defeat. Whatever I need to do… I’ll do it.” I wanted Skyler, not just now but for the long haul. That meant I needed to work on myself, how can I love another until I learn to love myself. And damn it, did I just start writing another song?

  “You’re not defeated, Elsie. This is the beginning of you winning.”

  Billy Boy

  Skyler

  Revving the engine of my motorcycle, I peeled out of the estate at Twentynine Palms, navigating toward the highway. It’d been three days since I’d seen Elsie’s face. It may as well have been three years. The distance between us was more than temporal, and it hurt like a visceral wound.

  Is this what people mean when they say heartbreak?

  I was headed back to LA to take care of business. TKB. Just like Elvis.

  Camille had a few people lined up for auditions, and I needed to approve the final artwork for the album. The general public didn’t really know the crazy amount of work needed to get done for an album to hit the market. We’re not just a bunch of folks sitting around a mic hoping for a good mix.

  Writing. Recording. Artwork. Mastering. Dubbing. Marketing. Performing.

  It’s a business. Art is molded into a product to make money.

  When George Michael sang his song Freedom, he knew what he was talking about. Musicians live a fantasy, but the price we pay is high, changing who we are to make everyone else happy.

  In the beginning, it’s a slippery slope. I was so grateful when they picked me up I’d do whatever they wanted.

  Wear this. Stand here. Smile a bit.

  No leaving the cookie cutter they wanted you in; no changing your mind to go in different directions. They didn’t see us as people with a unique opinion or style. We were publicly sought-after individuals portraying a specific trend. It was that or nothing.

  I was under no illusion of how lucky I was to have as much control as I did. Newbies coming into the business, like Rush, West, and Rhys, were just pawns being directed on the board.

  Clarke Records was better than most labels, giving their artists more creative freedom. But in the end, it was the same thing—money. If we couldn’t make them money, there was no reason for them to keep us around.

  Art was currency.

  Camille met me at the entrance of the studio dressed in her rocker business attire, smoking a cigarette. She gives off that music professional vibe with black leggings and a bustier top under a blazer with high boots. All black. If she didn’t have platinum blonde hair, I’d think she was related to Elvira.

  “Hey boss lady, it’s another beautiful day in the LA swamp.” I grin as she snarls at my upbeat positivity. Everyone knows if Camille is smoking she’s stressed and ready to smash heads in.

  “Don’t even start with me, Dalton.” She blew out smoke, threw the butt on the ground, and smashed it out with the toe of her Jimmy Choos.

  I threw up my arms in surrender. “Hey now, don’t get pissy. Who shit in your cheerios this morning?”

  She flips me the bird before matching my perkiness in the most sarcastic way possible. “Oh, I just love having to explain to the label how you need a new bass player after just one album. Especially after we worked so hard to get you an entirely new crew. And without revealing certain…unsuitable details about the reason Rush needs to go.”

  I sighed, following her inside the building. The last thing I wanted was to make my relationship with Elsie an issue within the label. Remember that cookie cutter I was talking about? Yeah, she’s not supposed to be in it.

  “Let’s just get this over with…who do we have lined up?” I bit out harsher than I intended to and it has Camille in attack mode. Her eyes narrow, the left side of her upper lip twitches, and I know shit’s about to get real.

  “There is no lineup. I have one man for you today and it’s a take-it-or-leave-it situation.” Hands planted on her hips, she practically dares me to open my mouth again. I take the bait.

  “There aren’t enough bass players needing work these days?” I asked, irritated. “I came all the way out here to listen to auditions, Cam. If all you have is one man, why didn’t you just send him out to Twentynine Palms?”

  She rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed that I’m dumb enou
gh to ask. “He may be the only one here, but he doesn’t know that. And it’s my professional opinion you need some time with him before going back to the studio. Make sure you can work with him and he can work with you before sending him to learn a whole new catalog of music.”

  I followed her into the studio room, bracing myself, not knowing what to expect. One fucking musician; seems my reputation officially left the shitter and made it to the sewer.

  “Mr. McGrue?” Cam stepped aside. The man on the couch appeared a little younger than me. His guitar was laid across his lap, the fact that it was a Gibson caught my attention more than the tattooed fingers holding it. Damn, he was burly. Looked like a bouncer at the bar with broad shoulders, thick thighs, and giant hands. When he stood, he was my height, and I’m tall.

  “Hey there! Just call me Billy.” He held out his hand to Camille, then turned to me. “Mr. Dalton, it’s a real pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan of your work.” His voice contradicted his appearance. I half expected him to speak in slang or grunt unintelligibly.

  I took his hand and shook it. He had a genuinely pleasant way about him.

  “Billy. It’s nice to meet you. Is it bad I’m glad you’re not a kid?” The relief in me was palpable. I just prayed he wasn’t some wash-up desperate for work.

  He laughed. “Well, as long as it’s okay that I’m glad you’re not some teeny bopping chick.”

  We both grimaced at the image.

  I sat down on the couch and motioned for him to join me, giving Camille the ‘leave us alone’ look. Billy looked comfortable in his skin—he clearly wanted to work, but he wasn’t fangirling all over me or jittery with nerves.

  “So why do you want to come work for me, Bill?” I’d never interviewed a person in my life. We’d always had the same crew in Mechanical Disturbance and Camille handled all the other tertiary employees.

  He relaxed back into the cushions as he looked me in the eye and answered. “I’m a musician, Mr. Dalton, that’s all I know.”

  “Please, call me Skyler.” I like his no-bullshit answer. He didn’t try to fluff my ego or talk himself up as if I’m lucky to even be on his radar.

  “Skyler.” He nodded. “Not sure if you heard of my last gig, FiveDust?”

  My eyebrows went up. Of course I’d heard of FiveDust, they were the ultimate shit storm of a band. Amazing music but excelling at lifestyle maintenance even more.

  “I’m not looking for that kind of environment…” I need to make this clear right off the bat, hell if I wanted that kind of lifestyle I’d be happier than a pig in shit with Rush, not conducting interviews for his replacement.

  “Thank god. I’ll be forever grateful to FiveDust for the career it’s given me, but I grew out of that partying shit long before the band blew up. I just wanna enjoy the music, man. Play some good tunes, see some more of the world.”

  “You’re not exactly high maintenance, are you?” We laughed.

  “The less you want in this world, the happier you’ll be. I’ve got everything I want in life. A place to hang my hat, a guitar in my hands, and a few bucks in my pocket.”

  It’s a nice concept, but I’m not sure if I buy it. Nobody’s this content in life. “What about your family?”

  “I’ve got the standard-issue family unit. Parents and younger brother.” Billy’s eyes took on a faraway look. “No wife or kids. I’m a free agent. I play songs about love, but it’s slipped me by. Thought I had it once, but it’s the same ‘ol story.”

  “Those old stories often make the best songs,” I say, tapping my pen against my notebook, the lyrics already forming. “The one that got away or the one that threw you away?” I wonder more to myself, but he answers just the same.

  “Perhaps a little of both. She was younger and, well, maybe I shouldn’t have pursued her in the first place.”

  I winced as his words hit a little too close to home. Elsie is younger, better, off-limits, and yet here I am. “Why are the ones who blindside you the ones that draw you in?”

  “Because they offer something deeper than a quick roll in the hay, something you didn’t even know you were missing,” Billy answered as his fingers began to strum a melody.

  My mind becomes a hailstorm of words, falling heavily through my brain and fighting to get to my fingertips. “And what were we missing?” I ask though I’m not even looking at him.

  “Love. Connection, a sense of belonging, our other half. I’ve dropped more panties than I care to admit. Do they get my dick wet? Sure. I can blow my load, but it’s empty, hollow, meaningless. It takes a while to accept you’ll never feel complete again, but you get used to it.”

  “Do you?” I’m not sure I want to ever go back to the way things were before Elsie, she’s my muse, my angel and I want to be hers. I scribble down a few cords and hand them to Billy. “Play this in a D minor,” I instruct.

  He took a minute to find the tune and perfect it before it became natural. I let the melody wash over me, felt the heartbreak of the music, and began to write the lyrics.

  “My heart is in shattered pieces…” I pause with my head tilted to one side and I try to come up with the next line.

  “Someone feed me a fucking Reeces..” Billy sings and we both laugh.

  “Peanut butter to fill the cracks,” I sing, playing along to the nonsense that will never be recorded.

  “Is causing my heart attacks,” Billy adds, making this duet a humble disaster.

  His sense of humor was refreshing, that he could spin a line of crap while maintaining a professional sound was encouraging. It felt a lot like Benny. It felt fun.

  “Alright, alright, I never claimed to be a songwriter, just that I can play anything you hand over.” He kept strumming and started to hum, “My heart is in shattered pieces, you left nothing behind, no bread crumbs to follow, this should be a crime.”

  “Close,” I said, impressed he’s able to follow the tune and put words to it. But it’s not quite there yet.

  “This bed feels like ice, lonely and numb. But I see you laughing, looks like you’ve found someone. That rock on your finger haunts me at night. Every time he touches you, I’m ready to fight.”

  We finished a rough draft before putting away the notebook. Then spent the next hour swapping war stories from the road. Billy played guitar, bass, and cello of all things. The man wasn’t maddeningly prolific–though no one was anymore after meeting Elsie. But he was steady, picked up on a song quickly, and had a good sense of humor. He was easy to talk to. Something I hadn’t had with another musician since Benny.

  “Naw man, the worst part is being stuck in a small bus with poor air circulation, one toilet, and five guys with raging diarrhea because y’all decided to eat tacos from the roadside stand in tin-buck-two,” Billy said, one-upping my vomit story about bad tequila. I laughed my ass off as he acted it out, making all the appropriate facial expressions. After a minute, we sober and I tossed him a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.

  “You got me there.” I took a refreshing sip and closed my eyes for a moment.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what made you decide to leave MD and go solo?”

  Had someone asked me that three months ago, I would’ve choked up and become defensive. But the wound wasn’t as raw anymore. Working with Elsie helped me calm myself as much as express myself. Just another reminder of what a gift music could be to the soul.

  “After Benny died, the guys wanted to take a break, and I didn’t. I couldn’t go home and just sit in that empty house, you know?” I kept my eyes closed, not feeling a need to look at him as I explained. Something told me he’d understand.

  “Yeah. I get that. Sometimes it’s easier to keep playing, even if there is no audience.” Billy nodded slowly and this time I looked at him.

  He wasn’t condescending or pitying me for not bucking up and face shit. I’d only spent an hour with him and I was comfortable enough to tell him about Benny, about the ending of MD, and my fears for the future. It was the mo
st honest I’d been with another man in a long time.

  “I’d really like you to come work for me, Bill. I don’t know how you’ll like the other guys I have playing the drums and guitar, but I think you’ll be a good grounding presence for them. They’re good kids, they’re just new. I’m not sure if Cam told you, but we’re replacing one of them who’s not working out.”

  “Well, I kind of figured…” he laughed. “What’d he do, get a groupie pregnant? Gotta love those young dads on tours.”

  “Oh God, I could just imagine.” I shivered in fear, thinking of Rush as a father figure. “He insulted our songwriter and is just in general malcontent.”

  Billy nodded, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Ah, one of those. I get it man, and I can promise you that not only will I never do something like that, but I’ll also come to you first if I hear talk of it from other band members. As I said, I’m not a lyricist so I know their importance and even if I was, I’m human. I don’t take kindly to bullies.”

  I rose to my feet and offered a hand to Billy as he rose. “I know this is a little premature,” I say as I pull him into a half hug and clap him on the back with my free hand. “But welcome to the team.”

  The Devil’s Lair

  Skyler

  “Come in Skyler, Camille…” Amelia opened the door for us, her face blank, showing no emotion or hint of how this meeting was going to go. Her lack of emotion made me nervous; Amelia was usually such an overwhelmingly positive and over-the-top person from what little I’d gathered about her.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Amelia,” Camille said. Ever the professional.

  Amelia shut the door and moved behind her large desk. We were in the penthouse office of Clarke Records; it was quite a swanky joint. A large living room-like sitting area, a small stage, and one corner dedicated to her desk. She hadn’t changed much since taking over for her father after his retirement. Other than to add some art and flashy accent pieces, but that was it.