“Let’s start with the Concert Incident of 1993.”
Melody sighed fondly. “Ah, I remember it like it was yesterday.”
Beat bit the inside of his lip to quell a smile and found a more comfortable position in his director’s chair. They sat side by side in a dark, airless room in the depths of the Applause offices, recording their “confessionals,” although they weren’t doing any confessing themselves. This was about their mothers’ past.
Based on the uneasy look Melody sent him, talking about those long-held secrets in front of the cameras felt as unnatural to her as it did to Beat.
Damn, she looked pretty today.
A skirt, a snug skirt, the waistband of which hugged the bottom of her rib cage. Black tights tucked into scuffed ankle boots with a moon-shaped buckle. She’d walked into his gym wearing this coat—a bright green color that made her hazel eyes look bottomless. Her bangs were all blown around from the winter wind, cheeks red. He’d had to restrain himself from begging them not to put any makeup on her for filming. Why ruin something that was already beautiful to begin with? Still, whatever they’d put on her lips made them almost . . . plumper?
Stop staring at her mouth.
Stop thinking about how her hips felt in your hands at the gym and concentrate.
Shit. She was signaling him for help with a rapid series of blinks.
“The Concert Incident.” He coughed into his fist and sat up straighter. “Right. That is how people commonly refer to the final show. It took place in Glendale, Arizona.”
“Both of your mothers were pregnant at the time, correct?” asked the interviewer, a young man named Darren, a content manager for the Applause social media channels. “Trina was pregnant with Melody. Octavia with Beat.”
“That’s right,” Melody said. “Octavia was a little further along. Beat is older.”
“You’re going to hold two measly months over my head?” Beat asked.
“Is your hearing aid turned all the way up, dear?” She patted his forearm. “I want to make sure you can hear all the questions clearly.”
“What?”
Melody’s laugh filtered into the studio and Beat’s flipping stomach wasn’t the only one who responded to it. Danielle and Joseph smiled behind the camera. Even the lighting technician flashed a grin. “Okay, the Incident.” Melody tugged her skirt down to cover her knee and the rasping sound of wool on nylon made Beat’s mouth go dry. “The angst had been building up to that point. I think everyone would agree that Trina and Octavia are extremely different personalities to begin with. My mother, Trina—”
“Lyricist. Bass. Backing vocals,” contributed Darren.
“That’s right. She is more of a . . . restless, volatile soul, while Octavia . . .”
“Is more reserved. Most of the time,” said Beat. “Being the lead singer, she had sort of a poise about her, but when the song called for it, she could roar with the best of them.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” the interviewer said. “Octavia Dawkins has been referred to as one of the greatest rock vocalists of our time. You must be very proud.”
“I am,” Beat answered honestly.
“And you?” Darren raised an eyebrow at Melody. “‘Rattle the Cage’ has long been known as the anthem of the nineties and it was written by your mother, Trina. That must fill you with tremendous pride.”
Melody opened her mouth but didn’t speak right away. “It does,” she said, eventually.
Darren shifted in his seat, obviously scenting some intrigue. “And is that pride more for the music or would you say you’re a proud daughter?”
Her fingers curled on the arm of the chair. “Well . . .”
“Back to the Incident,” Beat slid in firmly, wishing his chair was closer to Melody’s. Wondering if he could somehow make that happen without being obvious. “The previous tour had only ended months prior. Stress was high. There had been some . . . typical backstage drama. Things that occur behind the scenes with a band in a fast, flashy environment.”
“Leading to the big breakup,” Darren said, leaning forward. “Fans have been speculating about the cause for years and the leading rumor has always been a love triangle. Could you shed any light on this decades-old mystery, Mr. Dawkins?”
Could he? Yes. Would he? Absolutely not. And it wasn’t merely a matter of keeping his mother’s past private. There would be repercussions if he outed the third player in the love triangle.
Also known as the one who broke up the band.
His blackmailer—and biological father.
Melody must have picked up his inner conflict, because she cleared her throat and said, “That’s the thing. If, in fact, there was a love triangle, which we are neither confirming nor denying . . .” She angled her head and winked at him from behind the curtain of her hair. “According to the fans, any number of fellas could have been the culprit.”
Beat’s chest swelled with gratitude. She was giving him an avenue of escape—and reminding him of their agreed-upon strategy. Friendly but evasive. “Axl Rose, obviously, is the big one,” he said.
“Yup,” Melody agreed without hesitation.
Darren’s jaw dropped. “Axl Rose?”
“Keanu,” Beat sent back to Melody. “That theory is a contender.”
“Reeves?”
“That’s my favorite one.” Melody sighed. “I just like knowing I could be connected to John Wick in some small way. Even if it’s just that my mom smashed him in ninety-two. But you’re forgetting about the strongest possibility.”
“Am I?”
“Mr. Belding.”
Beat snapped his fingers. “Right. He was always backstage.”
“They couldn’t keep him out! Belding was a secret freak.” She spoke to the camera out of the side of her mouth. “Seriously. Watch the earlier episodes. The signs were there.”
Darren was starting to catch on to their subterfuge. “You’re telling me the principal from Saved by the Bell might have been the catalyst that broke up the band.”
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.
