An office is an office. Pens and desks and chairs and papers. They’re all the same. The second I enter this one, goose bumps erupt all over me. It’s no colder in here than it is outside, but the man seated at the desk looks like he poops ice, and his cold gray eyes scratch my skin. He has a chiseled face and an athletic body, and I guess some women might find him attractive in a crisp, military sort of way. Me, I feel like I’m in front of the warden.
He leans back in his chair and eyes me up. He lingers on my thong, and I wonder if he’s an ass man. A trace of a smile lights his face as he shifts his attention to Juicy.
“And what’s your name?” he asks her.
“Juicy.” She winks.
“Of course it is.”
He’s an asshole, but I didn’t come here to be friends.
“Melody,” he says slowly. “Why should I believe you?”
I refuse to tremble in front of this man. I’ll bet Axel could tear his head off with one jerk.
“I don’t have a birth certificate, and I was too young to get my license when Yellowstone blew.” I shrug. “Either you believe me or you don’t.”
He tilts his chin and seems to ponder that. “Tell me. Why is Melody running around the countryside giving concerts?”
I cock my head. “I’m not what the media made me out to be. I don’t go around screwing every guy I see, and I’m not going to lie, I’d burn every thong on the planet if I had a chance. But all I’ve ever been trained to do is entertain. Dance, voice, and piano lessons since I was four. I was onstage giving concerts when I was fourteen, and Yellowstone blew before I could get any type of…” I shrug, “Job training. Can’t cook, can’t type, and I don’t have a whole lot of choices.”
“Girl like you could have found a man.”
“Wow. Did I miss it, or was it just three years ago that we had a woman vice president?”
He smiles, and I get the sense that he’s enjoying me. I don’t know why. “All I’ve got is a nice rack, a singing voice, and twelve years of dance training. So I tour.”
He hmphs.
“Consider this the last gasp of the twenty-first century. It’s acoustic and a little on the country side, but it’s better than counting snowflakes.”
“So for the past three years you’ve been touring, huh?”
I feel a twinge of unease. What if he asks me what other towns I’ve been to? “Not all the time. I got stranded in a small community at first. I played piano for the church there. Then some guy came in and recognized me, and the good people of the town kicked me out.”
He lifts his brows.
“It happens a lot. I’m either a bad moral influence, or I have a bunch of guys following me around like I’m the town whore.”
His lips pucker as he sizes up my figure. He takes in the other girls too. “Do my men get to fuck you?”
“No!”
The corners of his mouth twitch, and although he could be laughing inside, to me it looks like he’s not happy about this.
I level him with a firm stare. “Let me make this clear. Sex isn’t part of the bargain. We’re not sluts; we’re performers.”
His gaze slides to Juicy, who blushes and simpers back.
“Maybe if you’re real sweet, one of them will be nice to you, but I’m not making any promises.”
He bends forward and folds his hands on top of the desk. “A concert.”
I nod. “One for the town, a private one for you and your guys if you want. In return we want warm shelter, three meals a day, and respect.”
He eyes me askance when I say respect.
“I’m just being honest. If there was someplace safe to live where people wouldn’t hound me, I’d go there. But there isn’t. I’ll say it again. I may dance like a whore, but I don’t put out. I don’t even give blow jobs.”
“Not even a blow job,” he murmurs, his eyes crinkling in the corners.
I make a gag face. “Absolutely not.”
His expression closes. “No bargain.”
We stare at each other, and I get the feeling he’s waiting for me to give him something. Something a little extra.
“You two, go on outside.”
Juicy fixes me with a stare, like she’s saying who-the-hell-are-you?
“Out.” I point toward the door.
I wait until the door closes behind them.
“I’m responsible for a lot of people. What is it you want?”
“What every man wants.”
“You’re not getting that from me.”
He shrugs. “Then our business here is done. Corporal Dean will escort you to the gate.”
I go cold, and my feet anchor themselves to the floor. I have to stay. I have to do this. My hands form fists, and I fight with myself. Axel would kill me. Would kill him. He must never know.
“You can touch my tits.”
“Bra off,” he barks.
I look away and nod.
“With my dick.”
The shaking starts, and my breath comes in sharp, shallow pants. I blink back tears of humiliation and stare at the floor in front of the desk. This is betrayal. This is another man touching what belongs to Axel. The father of my baby.
My eyes glass over, and I can’t look at him. “If I do this, you have to promise not to tell.”
He sits up straighter. “Cross my heart.”
I look directly at him, and I let him see my soul. “If this gets out, there’s someone who will kill me. You have to take this to the grave.”
His eyes narrow and he leans forward. He gives a sharp nod.
Oh my God. What have I done?
“Take it off. Take it all off.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Are you okay, Melody?” Zack asks.
I nod, chin up so he can’t see how weak I feel.
I’m still shaking.
He narrows his eyes. “You don’t look all right.”
Juicy gives Felicia a wry glance. She’s kind of nasty if you want the truth, and I know if I make it out of this alive, I’m ruined. No one will want me, especially not Axel. It’s too late for regrets. The performance will start in about an hour.
Zack touches up my makeup.
“This stuff ain’t made for cryin’. You keep it together, hear?” He says this softly.
Which of course just makes my eyes fill up. Again.
With a sigh he grabs the corner of his sleeve and dabs them away.
“No more. I promise.” No more until after.
“You are brave and good.” He smooths my flyaways and steps back.
“You.” He points to Juicy. “Next.”
I huddle in a hard-back chair and clutch my coat to my chest.
“What happened?” Felicia winces.
“Nothing.” I don’t look at her. It was a savagely emotional experience, and I don’t want to talk about it.
While I was with Colonel Barry—turns out he’s the general’s brother—the others were escorted to our venue, an empty storefront in the downtown area. I don’t see how this is going to work. At the very least we need lighting. I take a break from self-pity to assess the situation. Mia tends to blend in well. She managed to sneak in and make contact with Zack a short time ago. By now, hopefully, our men know where to hit. Anxiety clenches my gut like a rubber band, and I want to fold over double. I don’t, though. It would only make the others nervous, and right now it’s time to be strong. For God’s sake, if we don’t pull this off, not only will Axel and the other prisoners die, but so will I and the other performers.
And so will the baby. If it’s even real.
Napoleon marches in clapping his hands. “Musicians!” He smiles like the dick he is. “Change of plans. We’re moving over to the Moonlight Bar.”
Panic wraps its hand around my throat. “What? You can’t do that!”
He raises his brows. “You got a problem with that, Melody?”
I glare at him, but inside I’m about to faint. “How are we supposed to get set up in time?�
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“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he says. “It has seating and good lighting. We’ll be able to see your—we’ll be able to see you better.”
Zack catches my eye, and I read my own dismay in his. I’ve got to think. Think.
“All right, people, let’s go!”
Every one of us is silent as three militiamen, including our Napoleon, escort us to the venue. It’s a ten-minute walk. Half a mile, maybe, but that’s all it’ll take to make this mission a disaster. I feel like I’m walking to one of those platforms where they hang you, and who knows? Maybe I am.
Juicy gasps. “What’s that?”
I turn to see what she’s looking at, and I stop cold.
“Don’t pay attention to that,” says one of our escorts. “Those men are being executed in the morning.”
They’ve fenced off a twelve-by-twelve area, and inside are a dozen or so wounded men.
Felicia gasps and claps a hand over her mouth. Her eyes plead with me to do something, and I grit my teeth. I glance back at the men, and that’s when it happens.
I spot Axel. Our eyes meet, and my limbs twitch with need. I want to rip open that chain-link fence and go to him. The look on his face changes swiftly from wonder to anger. That can’t be for me, can it?
I swing my head away. My heart chugs inside my chest, and dread leadens my feet. Will he hate me for this? Will he punish me? Remembering his style of punishment, my pussy tightens. I’m that sick.
Chin up, I keep walking. I want to peer back one last time, to somehow communicate that I’m here for him and that I love him. But we’ve already passed, and straining for another look would only draw attention. A block onward, a group of young people, my age and younger, titter at the edge of the road. One girl sticks out. From here she seems a little older than the others. In her early twenties, maybe. When she sees she’s caught my eye, she does a little hop and she waves. “Melody!”
I smile weakly, so torn up with worry that I can’t summon the will to speak.
She looks to the girl beside her and turns back to us with a grin. “Can we have your autograph?”
Of all the stupid, selfish—I suck in a sharp breath. I stop and turn to Napoleon. I’ve forgotten his real name. “Um, sir.” I indicate the group with a nod of my head. “Is that allowed?”
He scowls at the cluster of young people, then sends me a power-trip smirk. “By all means.”
The others stop while I stroll over. I paste a smile to my face.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” I place the speaker at about fifteen or so, and she shoves an old envelope at me.
I take it. “Anyone got something to write with?”
The older girl hands me her pencil. “Who should I make this out to?”
The perky fifteen-year-old does a little bounce. “To Hazel.”
I was that young once. I give her a genuine smile, scribble on her paper, and hand it back to her. I turn my attention to the older girl. I speak in a loud voice. “You’re pretty. You do any dancing?”
She blinks at me and shakes her head.
“I’ll bet you can sing, though. Right?”
“Ah, no,” she says with emphasis.
“You have great hair. Look at this.” I finger a strand of hair; then I grip her shoulders and turn her around, then back again. She’s staring at me like I’m a psycho now.
Well, I am. “Thank you for being my fan.”
Then I give her a hug. She pushes against me, and I put my lips to her ear. “It’s a setup. My boyfriend’s one of the prisoners. Get your friends out of here. If you want to help me, wait near the gate and tell the fort men we’re at the Moonlight Bar.”
She goes limp, and when I step away, she’s no longer smiling.
“Smile,” I say softly.
She does.
I take two steps back and wave at the group. “Thanks, everyone. I hope I see you in a couple days.”
A chorus of squees follows me back to the group.
“Feel better now?” Napoleon quips.
“Much.” I don’t, though. We’re in just as much danger as before, maybe more so. That girl could be so sick of fighting and death that she runs straight to Colonel Barry. I mean, really, what’s one ruling gang over another? The people here don’t appear to be suffering any more than the people in Sadie’s Bend. Poor, thin, a little desperate looking, but no more so than we are.
Right now I’m really scared. I used to puke before concerts, but I’m so far beyond that now I don’t think my stomach’s even working. Have I done the right thing?
Have I ever done the right thing?
I’m wearing clothes—all the girls are. Figure-hugging dresses with knee-high boots and our hair skinned back from our faces and pulled high on our heads. Straight out of the 1960s, I’m telling ya.
I take a deep breath and look out at the crowd. All men, of course. This one is strictly for Barry’s soldiers. The place smells like old beer and smoke. The smoke comes from a huge fireplace and a series of candle chandeliers. The beer? I’m sure someone around here grows hops. Guys never give up on stuff like that.
We’ve decided there’s no point in playing any of the songs I’m famous for. We’d need synthesizers and electronics for that, and they’re all dead. Microphones too, and speakers. We’ve pooled what we remember of pre-apocalyptic music. Our playlist is, to say the least, eclectic.
I bend around to the musicians. “‘Ode to Billy Joe.’”
It’s a really old song, but it was one of Pastor North’s favorites, and it’s ideally suited to the instruments we have. The first guitar kicks in, then the steel guitar, and that’s my cue.
“Was the third of June, another sleepy dusty delta day…”
The men respond with everything from appreciation to full-on crudity. They’re much like the men at the fort, but more restrained. I have a wide range, and I can really belt out a tune if I want to. My voice is a little on the husky side, though, and three bars into the song, the crudity dulls, the voices quiet, and I see longing in the eyes of men separated from loved ones, perhaps forever. It’s a song about grief, and all of us know a little about that.
From there we move into Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats,” and then I steal from Sam Smith and kick into “Stay with Me.” As I stand there on the stage, my gaze moving from face to face, I realize that these are just men, like any other. They’re trying just like the rest of us to keep civilization going—or at least the memory of it. I’m bringing them more death. It doesn’t sit right, somehow, but that’s how it has to be.
I’m halfway through a version of “Make It Rain” when I see him. Like a magnet pulled north, I zero in on Colonel Barry. I falter, but only for a second. I want to cover my face, to run away, but I can’t. What’s done is done. He gives me a half smile and takes a seat near the front.
At the end of the song, a young guy with tattoos all up and down his neck hands me a cup of water. I smile and take a grateful sip. Then I gag; it’s straight vodka.
This gets a laugh from the audience.
I put my hands on my hips and raise my brows. “All right, fine. Enough of that. You guys got something you wanna hear?”
“Alicia Keyes,” calls out Zack. At least it sounds like him.
“Anyone here know how to play the piano?” I raise my brows. No way. I never learned any of her music, and these girls don’t have the voices for it.
“No? Come on, guys, gimme something!” I offer them my best flirtatious smile.
“‘Crazy in Love,’” another guy shouts out. “You guys know that one?”
I cup a hand over my eyes and squint into the audience. “You mean Beyoncé?”
“Yeah!”
“The slow one or the fast one?”
“Slow, baby. Always slow,” comes another voice.
A chorus of laughter erupts.
“All right, ‘Crazy in Love.’ Who am I dedicating this to?”
“To Shannon.”
I turn to
my crew. “If you can do the chords, I can carry the rest.”
“All right! To Shannon, from the man who’s crazy in love!”
The guys shout and applaud. The music starts. It’s the perfect song for guitar and violin, and I close my eyes. I can’t help thinking about Axel, and soon the lyrics and the swell of the music overwhelm me. I sing it like I mean it. I belt it out like I’m holding my lover, like I’m pleading with him to love me back, explaining what he means to me. I’ve never sung like this before, and it’s like magic descends over the room.
No one seems to notice when the front door opens and a straggler walks in. He’s halfway down to the front of the room when I realize it’s Axel. He’s here! Even my soul flutters. A thrill bigger than the Carolinas fills my chest, and I sing the next few bars to him. Only him. Even though we’re seconds from ugliness, all I can think about is telling him how I feel, what he means to me. And then he moves, and by the light of the chandelier I catch the expression on his face.
Hatred.
Betrayal.
And I realize he knows. Did Mia rat me out?
The doors shut with a bang, and from the clanking I hear, it sounds like they’re being chained. I stop singing. The music stops playing, and fire erupts on the front window curtains. No one said anything to me about setting a fire. I rip my gaze from Axel to the flames, then back to my lover, and what I see chokes my breath. There is death in his eyes.
Within seconds the fire spreads to the ceiling, and the guys throw down their instruments. The audience members shoot to their feet and race to the front of the room, where the main door is. Zack motions for the rest of us to follow him to the back, perhaps to another door, but I’m frozen by the look in his eyes. Axel’s.
The fire spreads, and so does the smoke. Soon the room is cloudy, and it becomes hard to breathe.
“Come on, Melody! Come on!” Felicia tugs on my arm. Juicy is already gone, and the flames now climb the side walls and race for the stage.
My eyes burn, but I’m riveted where I stand. Axel crosses his arms and just stands there. That’s when it hits me. He means for me to die—for both of us to die. The cold chill of horror races up my neck, and I retreat a step, then another. He shifts his weight and begins to advance toward the stage. He sends a promise in the clench of his jaw, the squint of his eyes, and my lungs stop working.
Stolen Melody (Snow and Ash #2) Page 12
