Wreck the Halls

Melody shrugged, her right toe digging into the ankle of her left foot. Was that a tell? Something she did when she lied? “Your guess is as good as ours,” she said, finally.

The interviewer sniffed, splitting a skeptical look between them. “All right, back to the topic at hand. During the tour before the final tour, a love triangle ensued. We don’t know who they fought over, we just know it was someone.”

Melody was nodding along. “Like I said, my money is on Belding.”

Unamused, Darren checked his notes. “During that final tour, Steel Birds had a new drummer. The old drummer, Fletcher Carr, had been ousted. Did that have anything to do with the feuding?”

Beat could feel Melody looking at him askance. “If so, I have no knowledge of it.”

“Me either,” said Melody slowly, her eyes still warming his cheek.

“Very well,” continued Darren. “Then we have a six-month break for Steel Birds, followed by one month in the studio, recording their final album, Catatonic Blonde . . .”

“At which time, my mother had met my father, Rudy.”

“And Trina had met . . .”

“A roadie named Corrigan.” Melody smiled, obviously comfortable reciting information that had long been released to the press by Trina herself. “He lives in Detroit with his family now. We met once and I liked him, but we don’t have a lot of contact. It’s a Christmas and birthday card kind of relationship.”

Darren shifted. “How do you feel about that?”

“Confused about how DNA works, mostly. Roadies have good technical skills and I can’t even install software.”

Beat’s fondness for Melody swelled up so huge inside of him in that moment, he wondered if everyone could tell. Could see it. How hard he had to work to contain the bombardment of feeling inside of his chest. Again, he wondered how different life might have been if she’d been in it all along. Even in short bursts. They’d only spent a matter of hours together at this point and already her impact was making itself known. He was lighter and more at home in his skin when Melody was around. He had purpose. A coconspirator. A friend.

A friend he wanted to make out with.

A friend he wanted to tease and torture him—

“So when Steel Birds went back on the road for the final tour, both our mothers were pregnant,” Beat blurted, needing to keep them—but mainly himself—on track.

Darren took the cue, picking up where Beat left off. “Their relationship must have been somewhat harmonious for them to release an album and plan more shows.”

“Correct.” Melody snuck a look at him. “They were good for a while.”

“Until the tour,” Beat added.

“Culminating in the Incident.”

“Yes,” they answered together.

Darren put the pedal to the metal. “Melody, has your mother ever confirmed to you that she was the one who put the live scorpion in Octavia’s acoustic guitar?”

“She hasn’t verbally confirmed, but . . .” Melody itched her eyebrow. “I mean, can we all agree she probably did put the creature in the guitar? Who are we kidding? That’s totally her style. She wrote a song on the final album called ‘Scorpion Bite.’”

“Some say it was a warning,” Darren pointed out. “Or a foretelling of things to come.”

“I’m not sure she’s organized enough to be that diabolical,” Melody mused. “I think they just happened to be in Arizona.”

“Everyone knows that’s where you get the freshest scorpions,” Beat tacked on.

She gave him a grateful smile. His pulse moved faster.

“And Mr. Dawkins,” Darren said, transferring his attention. “Has your mother ever claimed responsibility for the lighting and sound issues? Midway through the first song, the spotlight on Trina failed and never came back on. Her microphone was faulty throughout the show, right up until the scorpion was discovered and Octavia slammed her guitar down on the amplifier. Causing the fire and the ensuing panic.”

“My mother wasn’t responsible for the lighting and sound. That’s not her job.”

“No, but she might have influenced whoever did hold that job.”

Beat conceded that with a nod. “She’s denied it and I believe her.”

“Sure, be loyal to your mother,” Melody teased. “Make me look bad.”

“There isn’t a single thing that could make you look bad,” Beat said, without thinking. In fact, it took him a full ten seconds to realize he was openly staring at Melody. And everyone was openly observing him in the dead quiet of the office.

“B-bold claim,” Melody stuttered, finally breaking the silence. “Considering you’ve seen me in braces.” She visibly gathered herself, once again pulling that skirt over her knee—rasp—and Beat’s blood ran unwisely south. What sound would those nylons make if she wrapped her legs around his hips? “Bottom line, the Incident was thirty years ago and no one will ever know what truly happened behind the scenes. We’re just glad no one was hurt.”

“Yes. Thank God for that,” Darren agreed, steepling his fingers. “Although the public’s sympathies have largely gone to Octavia, while Trina—the quintessential bad girl, if you will—seems to be the scapegoat for the breakup. Do you feel that’s unfair?”

“I don’t know,” Melody said, honestly. “We don’t . . . it’s not something we’ve gotten into. The breakup isn’t her favorite topic of conversation.”

“I see,” Daren murmured. “Now, for the question on everyone’s minds. Will you be able to reunite these women? Do you two have the power to bring these forces crashing back together in one of the most anticipated shows of all time?”

Beat looked at Melody.

She smiled back wistfully.

They stayed that way for several drawn-out seconds, letting the hope build. Then they both faced the camera. “No,” they said at the same time. “Absolutely not.”

“But we’re going to damn well try,” Beat added.

“For Belding,” Melody breathed.

They clasped hands, raising them high above the gap between their chairs. “For Belding.”

And for blackmail, Beat thought, forcing his smile to remain in place.





Chapter Eight





December 15



Was she in the middle of a makeover montage?

Since arriving back at the Applause Network offices bright and early Friday morning, Melody had been trapped in a whirlwind of grooming tools, hair products, self-tanning paraphernalia, and sequins. So many sequins. Initially, she’d been asked by the various aestheticians and hair gurus about her typical routines, but when she couldn’t provide them with anything resembling a satisfactory answer, they stopped talking and quite simply began tearing strips of hair off every inch of her body, shaping her bangs, buffing and polishing her nails and never once offering her any more beignets.

Of course, Beat was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t need to undergo a transformation to be camera ready—he’d been born that way. All he had to do to prepare for tonight’s gala was don a suit and spritz on a little cologne and he’d have everyone’s panties around their ankles. Probably even hers.