Lost Melody

by Roz Lee

  Sunny elbowed her in the ribs and pointed to the giant screen behind Hank. Four cameras showed a close up of each band member. The crowd screamed their excitement. The band members adjusted their instruments and microphones, and in unspoken agreement, they turned to Hank.

  There was an almost imperceptible nod shared among them. Hank raised his sticks to chest level and tapped out the beat. The band launched into one of their more popular hits, and the crowd roared their approval.

  Chad stepped to the microphone, and the crowd drowned out his lyrics. She didn’t care if she heard Chad or not. Hank was on stage, and nothing else mattered.

  Images from the stage cameras flashed across the big screen. Stationary views alternated with ones from the roving handheld cameras moving from one band member to the next, providing the audience close-up views of everything happening on stage.

  There were no less than three cameras on Hank all the time. One hung directly above the drum kit, somewhere in the massive rigging holding the lights and speaker system high above the stage. Another was low and to one side, allowing a view of his lower body and the drum kit. Still another one must have been in the front of the stage rigging and captured his face.

  The band was magnetic. They drew the audience into the music, and in turn, fed on the energy coming from them. Spotlights panned the arena, and the stage lights pulsated to the pounding beat of the music, adding to the electric atmosphere.

  She was aware of everything happening at once, but all of it was perceived in her peripheral vision. She focused on Hank and Hank alone. She drank him in. He belonged on stage. In the studio, it had been easy to see how much he loved to play, but here on stage, he was at home. The close-up views revealed a light in his eyes and an unmistakable set to his shoulders.

  He loved what he was doing. He loved the music, the screaming fans. She could almost hear the blood pounding in his veins across the distance. From the overhead camera, she watched his hands and arms, the muscles of his thighs bunching as he worked the various foot pedals. Energy and excitement radiated off him in waves and danced across the crowd.

  He was magnificent. He was brilliant. She understood how the thousands of women in the arena would be attracted to the men on stage, and raw jealousy pulsed through her.

  He’s mine!

  In a flash of insight, she understood a little of her mother’s torment. Another generation of women had felt the same rush of desire for her father at one time. She understood why her mother had wanted to distance herself. How difficult it would be to witness the adoration day in and day out. How hard it must have been for her mother to know so many coveted what she claimed as her own. Her mother hadn’t been strong enough. She walked away from the man she loved.

  Her heart ached for her mother, for the loneliness she endured over the years as a result of her decision. Her mother had been faithful to her father, but was the reverse true? Could any man withstand the type of temptation this lifestyle presented—especially when the woman he loved denied him her companionship? Melody doubted it, but she forced the question from her mind. Hank was different. She was different.

  BlackWing alternated their hits with the covers from the new CD. The tempo varied along with the instrumentation. Sir Jonathan joined them midway through the concert to a standing ovation. It was long minutes before the crowd settled enough for them to continue. Melody squeezed Miriam’s hand as the older woman watched Jonathan on stage for the first time. She knew exactly how she was feeling, and they shared an understanding glance between them. Miriam would be all right. She loved Jonathan, and judging by the expression on her face, she understood how much it meant to him to be back on stage.

  He sang the old familiar lyrics, paying homage to his deep friendship with her father. Her heart swelled with love and pride. BlackWing stepped back ever so slightly and gave him the stage. Jonathan rocked the house. He had lost none of his stage presence over his years of his self-imposed retirement, and the crowd reacted with wild enthusiasm.

  After his brief solo performance, Jonathan blended seamlessly into the band, and the concert continued. Her gaze rarely strayed from Hank. She noticed when he reached for a water bottle. She saw when Rick handed him a fresh towel or passed him another set of sticks. She made a mental note to thank Rick for watching out for Hank.

  The hot lights along with the physical exertion took a toll on him. She noted the thin lines of fatigue around his mouth and eyes, but he kept him going. Adrenaline was his drug of choice, and it would keep him going, night after night, for the next six months. No wonder he wanted to live on his farm when he wasn’t on tour.

  She pictured Ravenswood in her mind and knew it was the place her father sought out for redemption following a strenuous tour. Hank would like it there, too.

  The crowd showed no signs of mellowing as the evening wore on. If anything, they grew louder and bolder. They stood in front of their seats, dancing, singing, and waving their arms. The sequence of songs was designed to gradually bring the event to a close. Each song decreased in tempo by infinitesimal degrees. Her heart threatened to knock a hole in her ribcage.

  The last song would be “Melody.”

  The band jammed while the roadies pushed the grand piano to center stage. A wave of anticipation rippled through the audience. Backup singers and a phalanx of string musicians found their way to the stage, almost beneath notice in their subtlety. By infinite degrees, BlackWing masterfully brought the house under their control.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The spotlights panned around the arena, and Hank’s gaze followed them across the crowd. A spark of adrenaline coursed through his veins and a little of the old excitement built. He owed it to the loyal fans that had paid good money to see them play to do the best he could tonight. Wondering if Melody was among them wouldn’t help.

  He made eye contact with the other four men on stage and one-by-one determined they were ready. With a tiny nod, he listened for the click track to come through his earpiece.

  The beat began. He absorbed it for a moment then brought his sticks up to chest height where the others could see them and counted first to himself, one, two, three, four. Then with the sticks—tap, tap, tap, tap. They simultaneously burst into the melody of their first song of the tour.

  He fell into the beat—allowed it to consume him. Energy emanated from the crowd in rolling waves. He felt, as much as heard, the moment the others recognized it, too. Their playing ramped up to meet the level of the crowd’s response, and so it went for song after song. He recognized the adrenaline rush for what it was—a powerful drug that gave him strength he didn’t possess.

  Where earlier he felt nothing, now he knew it had been deceit on his part. He loved the music. He loved performing, and he loved the enthusiasm from the audience. The wilder the crowd became the more heart and soul the band poured into the music. He would be all right if Melody was never his because he still had his music and he still had the audience. Like an addict with a habit he couldn’t kick, he craved the adrenaline rush of being on stage. With or without Melody he would still perform. He couldn’t walk away from it for any price.

  Sir Jonathan took the stage mid-concert. He’d never heard anything like the crowd’s response for as long as he’d lived. A Rock and Roll legend was on stage after a long absence, and the audience paid homage to his talent and genius. BlackWing gave him his moment in the spotlight. He held the crowd in thrall, and like he’d done it a million times, he blended seamlessly into the group. Never in his wildest dreams had he ever envisioned sharing the stage with Sir Jonathan Youngblood.

  The sequence of songs gradually set up the finale, and as each blended one into another, he steeled himself for his solo performance. It was one thing to hide behind the drum kit with the cameras flashing close-up views of his face and hands on the giant screen behind him. It was another thing entirely to sit at the grand piano, center stage, while every set of eyes in the house focused on him.

  The band settled in
to a jam session. The roadies pushed the piano to center stage and adjusted the microphones. He continued to play, gently easing out of the mix until the drums were silent. The others continued on, easing out one at a time. Hank accepted a water bottle from Rick. He took a long draw from it and exchanged it for a dry towel. He wiped the sweat from his face and hands and tossed the towel back.

  The last of the group eased out and the stage and audience went silent. Hank took his place at the piano. A single spotlight lit him from overhead. Darkness cloaked the backup singers and string ensemble who would accompany him.

  He shut out the silence in the arena, focused on the notes and lyrics written on his heart. He straightened, adjusted the microphone. Eyes downcast, fingers hovering over the keyboard, he spoke softly into the silence.

  “For Melody Harper Ravenswood. My life. My love.”

  Her heart skipped a beat, and she automatically reached for the key around her neck. Hank faced the VIP box where she stood, like everyone else in the arena too pumped with adrenaline to sit. Two camera images split the giant screen, one a close-up from overhead of his hands on the keyboard, the other a direct close-up of his face.

  His fingertips touched the keys. Love, pure in its simplicity, pulsed across the arena. His deep, voice melted like the smoothest, most intoxicating chocolate over the crowd.

  She ceased breathing. Every word, every note, fired across her being. As soul-baring as the recording had been it was nothing compared to what was happening on stage. His voice replaced the life giving oxygen in her bloodstream, sustaining her for those suspended moments in time. Swept up by the magic spell he wove, her spirit soared above the crowd and merged with his on another plane of existence.

  The last note faded away, and the stage went dark. Melody collapsed to her knees in the aisle. Her lungs fought for oxygen like a diver breaking the surface of the water. She tried to hoist herself up and heard concerned voices in the fog of her confusion. Strong arms lifted and carried her out of the arena.

  Cold winter air slapped her in the face, bringing her out of the darkness enveloping her. A limo appeared, and her rescuer scooted her inside. Sunny, Henry, and Miriam joined her.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t catch my breath,” she whispered.

  Sunny patted her hand. “No need to apologize. Hank Travis is a vortex. He sucked the oxygen right out of the arena. There wasn’t a woman in the place who was breathing, including me.”

  The car moved forward. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “That depends on you,” Henry said. “If you want to go back to Sunny’s apartment, we’ll take you there. Or anywhere else you want to go.”

  “Where’s Hank?”

  “By now, he’s on the bus with the rest of the band. They’ll be going to the hotel for the after party.”

  “Take me there.”

  * * *

  He managed to stand and make his way across the stage to the drum riser. Rick handed him a water bottle and a towel. He went through the encore on autopilot, wishing they’d chosen any other song besides “One Night” to end with. He remembered Melody’s innate reaction to the erotic and suggestive beat. Where “Melody” drained him physically and emotionally, “One Night” had the opposite effect. It aroused him almost beyond his ability to endure.

  The stage went dark. Rick was at his side, penlight in hand, ushering him off the platform and across the stage to the stairs. He stepped onto the luxury bus, his home away from home for the next few months. Tonight it would take him a few short blocks to the hotel where they would hold the after party. Everyone was invited to the first one of the tour, from the lowliest roadie to the executives from their record label, Madison Square Garden, and even the Mayor.

  He collapsed onto one of the sofas and consciously relaxed every muscle in his body. He instantly fell into an exhausted sleep. Rick woke him when they arrived at the hotel and ushered him through the rear door and into the service elevator. Minutes later, he was in the suite of rooms obtained for his use until the tour moved on to Boston the following week.

  He braced against the shower wall and allowed the hot water to wash away his fatigue. The adrenaline rush subsided, and with it, his energy. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and another type of hunger rose anew. Rick would have a room service meal waiting for him when he got out of the shower to appease one of the appetites. Only Melody could appease the other one, and she was in London.

  He shut off the hot water valve. Cold water hit him full force and a litany of explicit curses echoed through the small bathroom.

  Rick came through for him with a thick steak, medium well, and a baked potato on the side. The ballroom downstairs would have several buffet tables laden with enough food for an army, but it would be hard for the band members to eat there. They would pose for photos with people they didn’t know, accept congratulations from nameless individuals, and make nice with the executives who made it possible for BlackWing to exist. And there were the interviews with the few select reporters.

  Invited guests would arrive first followed by the roadies, who after securing the stage, would walk over to the hotel only a few blocks from the Garden. Eventually, BlackWing would be expected to make an appearance. Long ago, they’d figured out it was best to trickle in one at a time rather than arrive as a group. He had every intention of being the last to arrive and the first to leave.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Melody made her way along the buffet table more to silence Henry and Miriam than because of any interest she had in eating. Sunny worked the crowd, drawing attention to herself and away from Melody. The older couple however, hadn’t left her side since they’d entered the hotel. She questioned Henry and learned Hank had a suite on an upper floor. He would go there first to clean up before joining the party. She considered trying to get to his room, knew with Henry’s help she could circumvent the security, but if she did, he probably wouldn’t come down to the party at all, and he needed to make an appearance.

  She couldn’t lose track of the reason she was there. She needed to see Jonathan tonight to congratulate him on his successful re-emergence on the Rock and Roll stage and to question him about the articles.

  Henry knew many of the executive types in attendance, and he introduced her and Miriam to several. Miriam attracted her share of attention as Sir Jonathan’s fiancé—a fact attested to by the enormous rock on her ring finger. She accepted the congratulatory remarks with grace no matter the level of surprise accompanying them. Miriam’s presence was a godsend as it served to deflect attention away from Melody.

  Sir Jonathan arrived in the company of Chad Winston, who adroitly maneuvered them to Miriam’s side. He wore his love for her on his face. He was protective and possessive, inquiring if she needed anything, if she wanted to stay longer or go. Her wish was his command. Miriam stood next to him, fingers entwined with his while he accepted his accolades. She need not worry about Jonathan—he had found the right woman.

  A disturbance near the ballroom entrance drew her attention. Hank stood in the doorway. She drank him in.

  He was magnificent, from his still damp hair to his crisp tan chinos. He gradually made his way deeper into the room, posing for snapshots and signing autographs as he went. Each step brought him closer to her, and she pressed her hand over her chest where the key lay warm against her skin.

  Underneath his relaxed, pleasant demeanor ran an undercurrent of tension. She sensed it first before she noticed the evidence in the slight clenching of his jaw and the way his smile never really reached his eyes. He glanced over the heads surrounding him and made eye contact with his father, and then his gaze shifted to the side. To her.

  With no pretense of courtesy, he closed the distance between them. His strong fingers clenched around her upper arm, and he half-dragged her to the nearest door. In the service hallway, he pressed her against the wall, and before the door closed behind them, his lips came down to cover hers.

  He cradled her face in his hands. His
hard body pressed hers against the wall. She didn’t try to resist—didn’t want to struggle. She had wanted to feel his touch since the moment he stepped on stage.

  He smelled of soap and the musky aftershave he favored. He tasted like Heaven. She brought her hands up to the back of his neck and speared her fingers through his hair, pressing him tighter against her lips.

  The door behind them burst open. A man dressed in service attire clambered through with a stack of empty trays. His eyes widened in recognition, and he apologized profusely before scurrying along the hallway to the kitchens.

  She dropped her hands to her sides, and Hank shifted his from her face to her shoulders.

  “Let’s get out of here. I have a suite upstairs. No one will disturb us there.”

  She nodded in agreement, and he took her hand, lacing their fingers together. He pulled her behind him to the kitchens where he stopped the first person he saw.

  “Where is the service elevator?” he asked.

  The stunned employee pointed, and a few minutes later, they were on an upper floor of the hotel. He fished a key card out of his pocket and slid it into the slot. The LED flashed green, and he pulled her into the room.

  He fused his lips with hers once again, stealing what little breath she had. His hands scorched her skin through her thick sweater. She tugged at his shirt, trying to pull it from his waistband. He released her and took a step back.

  She stood her ground while he looked his fill. His gaze, darkened with desire, devoured her. His need for her was evident beneath the pleated front of his slacks, and she reveled in her power over him.

  “You look wonderful. I’ve missed you.” His voice was hoarse.