Wreck the Halls

You know, I’ve had this reality show producer contact me twice.

Maybe she would be a good place to start.

His blackmailer’s words came back to him. Danielle something. She’d contacted Beat, too. Had a popular network behind her, if Beat recalled correctly. His assistant usually dealt with inquiries pertaining to Steel Birds, but he’d forwarded this particular request to Beat because of the size of the offer and the producer’s clout.

Instead of calling his accountant, he searched his inbox for the name Danielle—and he found the email after a little scrolling.

Dear Mr. Dawkins,

Allow me to introduce myself. I’m your ticket to becoming a household name.

Since Steel Birds broke up in ninety-three, the public has been desperate for a reunion of the women who not only cowrote some of the world’s most beloved ballads, but inspired a movement. Empowered little girls to get out there, find a microphone, and express their discontent, no matter who it pissed off. I was one of those little girls.

You’re a busy man, so let me be brief. I want to give the public the reunion we’ve been dreaming about since ninety-three. There are no better catalysts than the children of these legendary women to make this happen. It is my profound wish for you, Mr. Dawkins, and Melody Gallard to join forces to bring your parents back together.

The Applause Network is prepared to offer each of you a million dollars.

Sincerely,

Danielle Doolin





Beat dropped the phone to his thigh. Had he seriously only skimmed an email that passionate? He hadn’t even made it to the middle the first time he’d seen the correspondence. That much was obvious, because he would have remembered the part about Melody. Every time someone mentioned her, he got a firm sock to the gut.

He was getting one now.

Beat had zero desire to be a household name. Never had, never would. He liked working behind the scenes at his mother’s foundation. Giving the occasional speech or social media interview was necessary. Ever since “Rattle the Cage” had gone viral, the requests had been coming in by the mother lode, but remaining out of the limelight was preferable to him.

However.

A million dollars would solve his problem.

He needed to solve it. Fast.

And if—and it was a huge if—Beat agreed to the reality show, he’d need to talk to Melody first. They might have grown up in the same weird celebrity offspring limelight, but they’d gotten vastly different treatment from the press. He’d been praised as some kind of golden boy, while every single one of Melody’s physical attributes had been dissected through paparazzi lenses—all when she was still a minor. He’d watched it from afar, horrified.

So much so that the first and only time they’d met, he’d been rocked by protectiveness so deep, he still felt it to this very day.

Was there any way to avoid bringing her back into the spotlight if he attempted to reunite Steel Birds? Or would she be dragged into the story, simply because of her connection to the band?

God, he didn’t know. But there was no way in hell Beat would agree to anything unless Melody was okay with him stirring up this hornet’s nest. He’d have to meet with her. In person. See her face and be positive she didn’t have reservations.

Beat’s pulse kicked into a gallop.

Fourteen years had passed and he’d thought of her . . . a weird amount. Wondering what she was doing, if she’d seen whatever latest television special was playing about their mothers, if she was happy. That last one plagued him the most. Was Melody happy? Was he?

Would everything be different if he’d just called her?

Beat pulled up the contact number for his accountant, but never hit call. Instead, he reopened the email from Danielle Doolin and tapped the cell number in her email signature, with no idea the kind of magic he was setting into motion.





Chapter Two





December 8



Melody stood at the top of the bocce ball court, the red wooden ball in hand.

This throw would determine whether her team won or lost.

How? How had the onus of demise or victory landed on her birdlike shoulders? Who’d overseen the lineup tonight? She was their weakest player. They usually buried her somewhere in the middle. Her heartbeat boomed so loudly, she could barely hear the Elf soundtrack pumping through the bar speakers, Zooey Deschanel’s usually angelic voice hitting her ears more like a witch’s cackle.

Her team stood at the sides of the lane, hands clasped together like it was the final point at Wimbledon or something, instead of the bocce ball league. This was low stakes, right? Her boss and best friend, Savelina, had assured her this was low stakes. Otherwise, Melody wouldn’t have joined the team and put their success at high risk. She’d be at home watching some holiday baking championship on the Food Network in an adult onesie where she belonged.

“You can do it, Mel,” Savelina shouted, followed by several cheers and whistles from her coworkers at the bookstore. She hadn’t known them well in the beginning of the season, considering she worked in the basement restoring young adult books and almost never looked up from her task. But thanks to this semi-torturous bocce league, she’d gotten to know them a lot better. She liked them.

Oh, please God, grant me enough skill not to let them down.

Ha. If she didn’t screw this up, it would be a miracle.

“Do you need a time-out?” asked her boss.

“What made you think that?” Melody shouted. “The fact that I’m frozen in fear?”

The sprinkle of laughter boosted her confidence a little, but not by much. And then she made the mistake of glancing backward over her shoulder and finding the entire Park Slope bar watching the final throw with bated breath. It was the equivalent of looking down at the ground while walking on a tightrope. Not that she’d ever experienced such a thing. The craziest risk she’d taken lately was hoop earrings. Hoops!

Now she was breathing so hard, her glasses were fogging up.

Was everyone looking at her butt?

They had to be. She looked at everyone’s butts, even when she tried not to. What would make this crowd any different? Did they think her floor-length pleated skirt was a weird choice for bocce? Because it totally was.

“Mel!” Savelina gestured to the bocce lane with her pint of beer. “We’re going to run out of time. Just get the ball as close to the jack as possible. Piece of cake.”

Easy for Savelina to say. She owned a bookstore and dressed like a stoned bohemian artist. She could pull off gladiator sandals and had a favorite brand of oolong tea. Of course she thought bocce was simple.

The crowd started cheering behind Melody in encouragement, which was honestly very nice. Brooklynites got a bad rap, but they were actually quite friendly as long as they were being offered drink specials and strangers regularly complimented their dogs.