Wreck the Halls

Melody’s feet basically stopped working. The air inside of her lungs evaporated and she had no choice but to slow to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Beat Dawkins. She heard that name in her sleep, which was utterly ridiculous. The fact that she should still be fascinated by the man when they hadn’t been in the same room in fourteen years made her cringe . . . but that was the only thing about Beat that made her cringe. The rest of her reactions to him could best be described as breathless, dreamlike, whimsical, and . . . sexual.

In her entire thirty-year existence, she’d never experienced attraction like she had to Beat Dawkins at age sixteen when she spent a mere five minutes in his presence. Since then, her hormones could only be defined as lazy. Floating on a pool raft with a mai tai, rather than competing in a triathlon. She had the yoga pants of hormones. They were fine, they definitely counted as hormones, but they weren’t worthy of a runway strut. Her lack of romantic aspirations was yet another reason she felt unmotivated to go out and make human connections. To be in big, social crowds where someone might show interest in her.

It was going to take something special to make her set down the mai tai and get off this raft—and so far, no one had been especially . . . rousing. A fourteen-year-old memory, though? Oh mama. It had the power to make her temperature peak. At one time it had, anyway. The recollection of her one and only encounter with Beat was growing grainy around the edges. Fading, much to her distress.

“Well.” Danielle regarded Melody with open interest. “His name certainly got your attention, didn’t it?”

Melody tried not to stumble over her words and failed, thanks to her tongue turning as useless as her feet. “I’m sorry, y-you’ll have to refresh my memory. The emails you sent me were about . . . ?”

“Reuniting Steel Birds.”

A laugh tumbled out of Melody, stirring the air with white vapor. “Wait. Beat took a phone call about this?” Baffled, she shook her head. “As far as I know, both of us have always maintained that a reunion is impossible. Like, on par with an Elvis comeback tour.”

Danielle lifted an elegant shoulder and let it drop. “Stranger things have happened. Even Pink Floyd set aside their differences for Live 8 in 2005, and no one believed it was doable. A lot of time has passed since Steel Birds broke up. Hearts soften. Age gives a different perspective. Maybe Beat believes a reunion wouldn’t be such an impossible feat after all.”

It was humiliating how hard her heart was pounding in her chest. “Did . . . did he say that?”

Danielle blew air into one cheek. “He didn’t not say it. But the fact that he contacted me about the reunion speaks for itself, right?”

Odd that Melody should feel a tad betrayed that he’d changed his position without consulting her. Why would he do that? He didn’t owe her anything. Not a phone call. Nothing. “Wow.” Melody cleared her throat. “You’ve caught me off guard.”

“I apologize for that. You’re very difficult to get in contact with. I had to dig quite a bit to find out where you worked. Then I saw a picture of your bocce team on the bookstore’s Instagram. Thank goodness for location tags.” Danielle gestured with a brisk, gloved hand to the general area. “I assure you, I wouldn’t have ventured into Brooklyn in twenty-degree weather unless I had a potentially viable project on the table. One that, if done correctly, could be a cultural phenomenon. And it would be done correctly, because I would be overseeing production personally.”

What was it like to be so confident? “I’m afraid to ask what this project entails.”

“That’s why I’m not going to tell you until we’re in my nice, warm office with espresso and a selection of beignets in front of us.”

Melody’s stomach growled reluctantly. “Beignets, huh?”

“They piqued Beat’s interest, as well.”

“They did?” Melody’s breathless tone hit her ears, cluing her in to what was happening. The tactic that was being employed. “You keep bringing him up on purpose.”

Danielle studied her face closely. “He seems to be my biggest selling point. Even more than the money the network is willing to pay, I’m guessing,” she murmured. “If I hadn’t mentioned his name, you never would have stopped walking. Surprising, since the two of you haven’t maintained any sort of contact. According to him.”

“No, I know,” Melody rushed to blurt, heat clinging to her face and the sides of her neck. “We don’t even know each other.”

And that was the God’s honest truth.

Fourteen years had passed.

However. Beat was a good person. He’d proven that to her—and he couldn’t have changed so drastically. The kind of character it took to do what he’d done . . .

About a month after they’d met in that humid television studio, she’d passed through the gates of her Manhattan private school, expecting to walk to class alone, as usual. But she’d been surrounded by buzzing girls that morning. Had she seen Beat Dawkins on TMZ?

Considering she avoided that program like the plague, she’d shaken her head. They’d cagily informed her that Beat had mentioned her during a paparazzi ambush and she might want to watch the footage. Getting through first period without exploding was nearly impossible, but she’d made it. Then she’d rushed to the bathroom and pulled up the clip on her phone. There was Beat, holding a grocery bag, a Dodgers ball cap pulled down low on his forehead, being pursued by a cameraman.

Normally, he was the type to stop and suffer through their silly questions with a golden grin. But this time, he didn’t. He halted abruptly on the sidewalk and, to this day, she could still remember what came out of his mouth, word for word.

I’m done talking. You won’t get another word out of me. Not until you—and all the similar outlets—stop exploiting girls for clicks. Especially my friend Melody Gallard. You praise me for nothing and disparage her no matter how hard she tries. You can fuck right off. Like I said, I’m done talking.

That day, Melody hadn’t come out of the bathroom until third period, she’d been so frozen in shock and gratitude. Just to be seen. Just to have someone speak up on her behalf. That clip had been shared all over social media. For weeks. It had started a conversation about how teenage girls were being portrayed by celebrity news outlets.

Of course, their treatment of her didn’t change overnight. But it slowly shifted. It lightened in degrees. Bad headlines started getting called out. Shamed.

And shockingly, her experience with the press got better.

Melody was so lost in the memory, it took her a moment to notice the smile flirting with the corners of Danielle’s glossy mouth. “He’s coming to my office on Monday morning for a meeting. I’ve come all the way here to invite you, as well.” She paused, seemed to consider her next words carefully. “Beat won’t agree to the reunion project unless you are comfortable with it moving forward. He made your approval a condition.”

Melody hated the way her soul left her body at Danielle’s words. It was pathetic in so many ways.

Beat Dawkins was eons and galaxies out of her league. Not only was he blindingly gorgeous, but he had presence. He commanded rooms full of people to give speeches for his mother’s foundation. She’d seen the pictures, the occasional Instagram reel. His grid was brimming with nonstop adventures. Equally glamorous friends were pouring out of his ears. He was loved and lusted after and . . . perfect.