Melody of Truth (Love of a Rockstar Book 3) (19 page)

“Just come here.”

“Is it bad?”

“Of course it’s bad.”

My eyes shut briefly as I gathered the courage to confront whatever was on Jane’s screen.

Camilla squeezed my hand, causing my gaze to land on her face, which brimmed with kindness. “You and Sean will come out of this together, and at the end of the day, that’s what counts.”

On shaky legs, I approached Jane’s table. As she tilted her computer toward me, my fingers gripped the top of her chair. She was wrong. This wasn’t bad, this was a level-five nuclear disaster.

Annie had done an exclusive with Star Magazine, spilling the details I’d disclosed to her in secret. That two-timing bitch.

I WINCED AS THE ICE-COLD
bag of peas hit my cheek. Matthew did the same as he applied a frozen steak to his split lip and cursed under his breath.

Sick of the animosity between us, Ash had suggested we each take a swipe at the other. Women talk about their feelings, men use their fists. Matthew had been reluctant at first, but after Noah’s encouragement, we’d decided to go for it.

The rules of the game were that we had one chance and one chance only to punch the other person. We weren’t supposed to go for the face, but Matthew was a dirty bastard and nailed a right hook to my cheekbone. In exchange he got a busted lip. The sense of satisfaction I felt when I saw the blood spurt from his face was immediate.

Ash rubbed the crimson stain on the carpet with a sponge. “It isn’t coming out. I tried the vinegar and dish soap method like my mom said.”

“That carpet has seen worse stains. Just leave it alone. We are selling this bus as soon as the tour is over and upgrading to one with hardwood floors,” Matthew said around his fat lip.

“Dude, are you going to be able to sing tonight? You sound like a Muppet.” Ash dropped the sponge into the bucket of soapy water and stood up.

“I better be able to. We have a sold-out show tonight.”

“You can always lip sync,” Noah suggested.

“Fuck that! I’m not Ashley Simpson. Our fans deserve an authentic experience.”

“They also deserve a lead singer they can actually understand,” I pointed out.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Sorry man. You started it.”

Grumbling, he disappeared into the back of the bus. A couple minutes later, the girls returned from their outing.

Melody didn’t ask any questions as she caught sight of the black and blue bruise blooming on my cheek.

“Is my boyfriend in worse shape than you or about equal?” Camilla asked.

“Equal.”

“If I find out differently, you’re getting a swift kick in the nuts.” She marched into his bedroom to see where my fate laid. Popping her head back out, she pointed a finger at me. “You’re lucky. My shoes are very pointy.” With that, the door slammed shut.

Melody collapsed on the seat next to me. “I’m guessing you have been too busy beating your chest to have heard the latest update.”

“What happened?”

“Her friend is a total class-A bitch is what happened,” Jane said.

My brows knotted together as I shot a look between them. “Someone needs to explain. I’m not a mind reader.”

“My friend—old friend,” Melody corrected herself with a sneer. “She went to Star Magazine and spilled a bunch of stuff I told her about us in confidence, and she exaggerated a few minor details to spice up the story.”

“Shit,” I muttered.

“My phone has been ringing off the hook since it hit the Internet. I have to fly to New York tonight before Marco gets wind of it—although I bet he already has.

“Tonight like tonight-tonight?”

“Is there any other kind?”

Terrified to let her leave without having a viable option for Marco’s son to come to the United States for treatment made me want to drag her to the motel room and lock her inside, make her wait until this whole bullshit media frenzy blew over, and then allow her to confront Marco.

“It’s too soon,” I said. “What are you going to say?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Noah informed me of a thing called medical tourism. I have been doing some research and wanted to let you know about it once I had all my ducks in a row, but…”

“Do you think it will help?”

“It might, but Marco does need to pay a deposit.”

The hope that had blared in her eyes a second ago dimmed. “He is a struggling poet without two nickels to rub together, which is why he wanted to marry me and get on my insurance.”

“We can still do a benefit concert.”

“I can’t allow you to mess up your schedule just because of me.”

“The cash from the ticket sales will just go to Marco’s son instead of us, it won’t mess anything up.”

“I guess it’s a worth try.”

Looking at Noah, I asked if he had heard anything from his dad yet. “To be honest, he wasn’t very helpful, but he said if and when Marco’s son gets here, he can take a look at his medical file. What’s his son’s name?”

“Hendrix Rodrigo.”

Noah scribbled the name on a piece of paper. “How old is he?”

“Five or six, I believe.”

Melody was going to be this young boy’s stepmother and she didn’t know his age? Something wasn’t right. “How are you not sure?”

“I haven’t met him and Marco doesn’t like to talk about Hendrix. He says it’s too painful.”

“Are you serious?! What if he is making up this entire sob story just to get a green card?”

“I’m not a dumbass Sean. I have vetted his story and it checks out.”

“By who? A back alley detective?”

“He works for the police department actually.”

I huffed out a hollow laugh. “The police get bribed all the time. Have you at least seen his son on FaceTime? Or are you not going to meet your own stepson until your wedding day?”

Jumping to her feet, she stared daggers at me, and my anger simmered to a low boil as regret set in. Melody was a mere casualty of my misdirected anger at having to give her up sooner than I wanted. If I kept acting the way I was, she just might stay in New York.

Melody balanced her hand on her cocked hip. “Why do you think I’m incapable of taking care of myself? I have been doing it sine I was nineteen years old and have survived just fine. Your advice isn’t needed or wanted, and to answer your question, yes I have seen him on FaceTime. He is an adorable young boy who has a mess of brown hair like his father and shares the same amber-colored eyes.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just worried Marco is going to prey on your weak spot if you don’t have a solid plan in place before you call off the wedding.”

“I don’t have a weak spot.”

My lips quirked at how adorably stubborn she was. “You have a savior complex; that is your weak spot.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. Knowing me for less than a month doesn’t qualify you for the Melody
Trivia
show.”

“He’s right actually,” Jane said from across the room.

“Fine!” Throwing her hands in the air, she huffed out a breath. “I like helping people in need. What’s the big deal?”

I softened my tone. “Don’t get me wrong, I love your soft heart, but some people might use it against you.”

“I’m stronger than you give me credit for Sean.”

“You are strong, stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. Having a weak spot doesn’t lessen that. It makes you, you, and you’re utterly perfect in my eyes.”

The fight left Melody’s body as she blinked slowly at me. I threw the ice pack to the side, stood up, and was about to kiss her senseless when she skittered to the side and away from my advances. “I have to pack.”

As if an avalanche was nipping at her heels, she escaped to her motel room. My brows bunched together in confusion as I shot a look over at Jane.

“Don’t ask me. I stopped trying to figure out my sister ages ago.”

I had no other choice but to go after Melody. I’d be damned if I didn’t get one last chance to show her what awaited her return.

THE KNOB TURNED EASILY IN
my hand. Stepping inside the dingy room, my shoes squished on the gold and red carpet. Camera gear was propped on the small table in the corner along with various gadgets that exceeded my knowledge. A suitcase lay open at the base of the bed without a single item of clothing inside. Melody sat on the floor, staring at it as she clutched a T-shirt in her fist.

“I can’t do this,” she said in a hushed whisper. “I’m not as strong or as perfect as you think I am.”

Lowering myself to the floor, I pulled her onto my lap. She leaned her head against my chest and her floral perfume wafted under my nose. I inhaled deeply, wanting to bottle the scent to get me through the next two days without her.

“You are all those things and more,” I soothed.

“I’m not, though. If I were, then I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this mess in the first place.”

“It takes strength to recognize that this marriage isn’t what you want and to dig deep to seek out what you do want instead.”

“You’ve put me on too high a pedestal. I’m afraid I’ll fall off and disappoint you.”

Déj
à
vu hit me in the sternum. My ex-wife used to express the same sentiments, and I would simply brush it off. To me, she could do no wrong, but living up to someone else’s expectations came with a high amount of pressure, which could have driven her to the brink. I didn’t want to drive Melody anywhere except into my arms.

“I know you don’t walk on water Melody. You’re not perfect in the sense that you are human and have flaws, but you are perfect in the sense that when I look at you, it’s hard to look anywhere else, and when I hold you, it’s like I’m coming home. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not going anywhere, and when you return I’ll be here waiting. Or, if you change your mind…” I said, gulping down the hardened lump in my throat. “Then I’ll cherish the last thirty days we have had together, because meeting you will never rank on my list of regrets.”

“I’m coming back,” she said. “Marco is my past. You're my future.”

My heart beat wildly in my chest as I tilted her chin upward and gazed into her midnight-colored eyes. “You mean it?”

“With every single bone in my body.” A smile steeped in joy touched her lips. “I’m yours.”

I claimed her mouth and our tongues met in a frantic dance. All the emotions that had come unhinged from those two simple words swept us up and carried us to the bed, where I crawled above her and gazed down upon Melody. Her words—
I’m yours
—echoed in my head like the most beautiful song I had ever heard.

I’m yours.

She was really mine.

I didn’t know how I’d gotten so lucky, but it was a gift I vowed to never squander.

I CLUTCHED THE ARMREST AS
the plane began its steady climb into the puffy white clouds. You would think someone who had reached Mileage Plus Premier status couldn’t possibly have anxiety when they flew, but you’d be wrong.

“Would you like a Xanax?” The woman in the seat next to mine jiggled a pill bottle. “I popped one before I boarded.”

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

She shrugged then tossed a white pill into her mouth and swallowed. “Your loss.”

I highly doubted that. Depending on the dosage, in under an hour, she would either be face down on her seat-back tray, drooling, and/or staring blankly out the window like a zombie in under an hour. My facilities needed to be sharp for when I met Marco at his art studio.

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.

“Melody.”

A flash of recognition lit up her round face. “You’re that girl in Star Magazine.” She shook a finger at me and I shrunk away. “Caught in a love triangle with a hot rock star and your equally as hot writer fiancé. I do not feel bad for you one bit.” Her high-pitched laughter grated on my nerves. “Oh man, what I wouldn’t give to be young again.”

With her heavy-handed makeup, it was anyone’s guess how old she was. Forty? Fifty-five? She dressed on the younger side with enough spandex to suffocate a small child.

Sean had suggested I wear a disguise, but there wasn’t enough time before my flight took off to visit a costume store; I really wished we had though. It would be the longest two-hour flight of my life if the woman’s meds didn’t kick in soon.

She leaned forward and I caught a whiff of alcohol on her breath. Jesus, was she asking for an overdose? “Tell me, who are you going to choose?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have me confused with someone else.”

“I’m very good at keeping secrets. My ex-husband used to call me locked lips, although he had other reasons for calling me that. Damn bastard.”

An inner shudder ran down my spine. I did not want to hear about her sex life, or lack thereof.

“Come on sweetie,” she said as sweet as cotton candy. “You can trust me.”

“I met you two minutes ago.”

“So? Trust is an inherent thing.”

“No it’s not. It has to be earned, and I’m afraid you haven’t done that.”

She sniffed, patted her bleach blonde locks, and sharply turned toward the window. I assumed the conversation was over and opened my fashion magazine—it had been the only one on the rack that didn’t have my affair stamped across the cover.

As predicated, my calls to Annie had gone unanswered. I’d known she was hurting for money after getting laid off, but a couple thousand shouldn’t be enough to stab your oldest friend in the back.

“I saw your documentary.”

My eyes stayed plastered on the article about the best jeans for your ass, praying the woman would get the hint.

“The latest one about the kids in Africa. It was good.”

I smiled tightly. “Thank you.”

“A tad slow for my liking. I prefer action films or sweeping dramas, but it did motivate me to donate to the charity listed in the credits at the end. Two whole dollars. I figured the money was better off helping fund clean water than spent on a candy bar.”

My rudeness dissipated at her genuine comment, and I glanced up. “That was very kind of you.”

“When’s your film about Matthew Lee coming out?”

“Next year sometime.”

“Will there be snippets in there about you and Sean Dallis? About how your relationship came about?”

That right there was exactly why I had a strict rule against getting involved with my subjects. Sean, though, had busted that rule to smithereens the first day we’d met with his all too tempting allure. In turn, the documentary had been tainted.

I would completely understand if Matthew pulled the film and fired me. So far though, while he had been justifiably angry, he hadn’t gone to that length yet. My guess was that was because of Sean.

The woman’s greedy expression awaited my response. “So? Will it?”

“No, it won’t,” I bit out. “Excuse me.”

Shuffling to the bathroom to get a moment of peace, I slid the lock in place and sat down on the closed toilet lid. I buried my face in my hands as the last twenty-four hours washed over me.

I had cheated on my fiancé, I had come to the realization that Marco wasn’t the man I wanted to be with, a scandal had erupted, and I was currently on a plane on the way to break off my engagement. My sanity felt as fragile as a pair of moth wings.

There was also the tidbit about how my career was potentially ruined. Without the credibility I’d worked my ass off to achieve, who was going to hire me? I’ll tell you who: a used car salesman in Jersey or a shady pawnshop in Queens. I would be known for low-budget commercials when I died instead of groundbreaking documentaries. The speech I had prepared for when I won an Oscar would gather dust in my drawer.

Was opening my heart to love worth the sacrifice?

On one hand, yes, because I knew a future with Sean by my side was a life filled with happiness and plenty of laughter. On the other hand, my career was a key part of what made me, me. Without it, I wasn’t sure who I was.

It wasn’t Sean’s fault his fame had sucked us into this mess. He had signed away his privacy when he’d joined Five Guys, and being together meant I had to share Sean with the rest of the world.

I just wished it hadn’t come at the cost of my own identity.

An aggressive knock rattled the door.

“Be right out,” I called.

I took a deep breath, exited the bathroom, and went back to my seat. The woman was passed out on her tray table, like I’d predicated. To ease my own mind, I checked her pulse and found it chugging along.

The intercom blared to life overhead.
“
Hello folks! We have about an hour left until we arrive. Snacks and drinks will be along shortly.

Opening my magazine again, I tried to distract myself from the panic that was slowly tightening its hold around my neck the closer we got to New York.

There was no point, though. The panic was there to stay.

I STEPPED OUT INTO THE
unusually warm and muggy night. Hitching my backpack up over my shoulder, I raised my hand to hail a taxi.

A patchouli-scented cab pulled alongside the curb, and I climbed in and gave him my address. While I wasn’t excited about breaking the news to Marco, I was excited to sleep in my own bed that night.

Wait—should I have gotten a hotel? It hadn’t occurred to me that Marco might be at the apartment. He usually spent his nights at his writing studio where he had a cot set up.

Whatever situation presented itself, I’d deal with it. There were other fishes to fry than where to sleep.

Catching the driver’s stare in the rearview mirror, my stomach coiled tightly. Crap, was he another person who was going to berate me about Sean? I sunk lower into the seat.

“You remind me of my daughter,” he said.

The sense of relief that flooded through my bloodstream was equal to the feeling of removing my bra at the end of the day. I smiled at the driver. “Is that so?”

“It’s your eyes. They reflect an old soul that has experienced a thousand lives. We used to call my daughter Nandi when she was little. In the Hindu religion, Nandi is the bull that stands for truth and wisdom. The elders would go to her when they needed advice even though she was decades younger than them.” He laughed and the pride that radiated from him was brighter than the sun. “She is attending Yale University as a freshman this year.”

“Congrats. That is a wonderful school.”

“She got in through numerous scholarships. I don’t have to pay a dime for her education.”

“Wow,” I uttered, impressed.

“My Nandi is a brilliant one, that is for sure.”

We lapsed into silence as I wondered if my father ever bragged about me to strangers. 

“We are here,” the driver informed me.

My hand lingered on the handle as I looked at the pre-war brick building with its cheery red door flanked by two boxwoods. My gaze traveled upward to the sixth floor, where my apartment was blissfully dark. Either Marco was out or he was asleep, although that was highly unlikely. He went to bed when the city begun to stir.

“Have a good night,” I said as I slammed the door.

In New York, elevators were few and far between in older establishments. My legs felt the burn as I walked up the six flights of stairs and was reminded why I hadn’t stepped foot in a gym in the eight years of living there.

My feet dragged down the hallway until I was face to face with number 302. The welcome mat that proclaimed
You Are Beautiful
in block letters had been removed. It was a silly item I had scored at the corner of 12
th
and Concord after signing the lease on that very apartment. I hadn’t had a stitch of furniture to my name, but I had a welcome mat.

As I inserted my key into the lock, I had to wonder what other “improvements” Marco had made. There was only one way to find out. I switched on a light and the tiny entryway was bathed in light.

“Hello?” I called out.

Blessedly, it appeared I had the apartment to myself. I dropped my belongings next to a chipped table I had found in a back alley and entered the living room/kitchen. My well-loved couch still remained, along with my fifties steamer trunk that acted as a coffee table. As my gaze traveled around the room, taking stock, it didn’t feel like the same home, even though everything was in its rightful place.

A stack of unwashed dishes was piled high in the sink and a used towel draped over the radiator attested to Marco’s messiness. He viewed cleaning as a distraction, which drove me up a freaking wall.

Rolling up my sleeves, I went to tackle the hurricane he’d created when it hit me like a speeding freight train: my apartment didn’t feel like my home any more because it wasn’t.

I had moved there as a grieving twenty-year-old running away from her demons and had found a sanctuary within these fours walls. Within the past month, that scared young girl had been set free, and my sanctuary was no longer comprised of brick and stone. It was in Sean’s arms.

Bowled over by this realization, I didn’t hear the door clicking open or the man that stepped through the threshold. “Melody?”

My eyes rose and landed on Marco. His honey-colored skin was a shade darker than when I’d last seen him and highlighted the flecks of gold in his irises. Ink splattered his jeans in a multicolored rainbow and a shirt billowed open at his collar bone. He played the handsome poet part to a T, and there would no doubt be hoards of woman lining up to take my place.

As my gaze swept over him, not a flutter of attraction or love registered, only a mild form of affection for the friend he had once been.

“What are you doing here?”

I gathered a breath and said the dreaded line no one wanted to hear: “We need to talk.”