It took me a few days after my encounter with Dearie to get my head on straight again. I moped around the Cursèd Place in a depressive funk, too wrapped up in self-pity to write any music or to go looking for mischief with the rest of the guys. I was lying on my mattress in a listless half-doze when my phone buzzed. I wrenched my eyes open far enough to peer at the screen and saw a number I recognized.
Melody.
I sat up sharply, feeling the world swirl around me as the blood drained from my head. I was awake in an instant. Melody had never called me before. The boundaries of our relationship were explicit: if I wanted to see her, then I would go to her at the club. She dictated whether or not we hooked up, and when she was finished with me, she sent me home. No discussion. No outside co
