“Yes, yes, yes.I promise,” she hissed out.
I cleared mythroat and sang quietly, “When you’re out on the run run. At work or having funfun. When you get that feel in your tum tum.” Melody joined me for the lastline. “It’s time for a chocolate Yum Yum.”
“Oh. My god, youwrote the Chocolate Yum Yums jingle?”
“Shhhhhh.” Imotioned for Melody to keep it down.
“Why? Those adshave run non-stop for a decade. I can’t tell you how many times that freakin’jingle’s been stuck in my head.”
“Exactly,” Isaid. “Everyone knows the song. It’s an earworm. And the last thing I want tobe known as is the Yum Yums guy.”
“I get that, butholy cow, you’re the Yum Yums guy!” Melody whisper shouted excitedly.
“So, that’s mybig secret,” I said. “Does that make you feel any better?”
“It does,” shereplied. “Except now I have the chocolate Yum Yums jingle stuck in my head.”
“It’ll be inthere a while. Why do you think I made you promise not to get mad at me?”
She grinned, nowhumming the song.
“Can I ask you aquestion?” I asked.
“Of course,” shesaid.
“What’s the dealwith the white guitar thing?”
“What whiteguitar thing?”
“You know,forbidding white guitars on stage?” I clarified.
She frowned. “Ihave no idea what you’re talking about.”
It was then thatI realized I’d been played.
“Son of abitch,” I hissed under my breath, and Melody burst out laughing.
“Well, now youreally are part of the band,” she said, taking another bite of salad.
I glanced backat the rest of the band across the restaurant. Puddin’ caught my eye and gaveme a chin lift. I smiled slowly, plotting his and the rest of my bandmates’demise.
Melody
“No!” I snapped, facing Train, andsqueezing my eyes shut as I took a deep breath. “Why do you keep going to theC? You’re supposed to go to the G just before the bridge.”
He settled hisarm over his guitar and studied me. “You sure about that?”
“I wrote thesong. Why wouldn’t I be sure about it?”
“Because this isthe G.” He strummed the chord. “And this is the C. And you’re singing the tonicwhich is a C note.”
I wrinkled mynose. Fuck. The C might not have been thecorrectchord, but it was thebetterchord.
Jesus, this manwas annoying the shit out of me. We’d been doing a little dance for a couple ofweeks now. A push and pull, if you will. Him with his perfect fucking pitch andability to write songs at a breakneck pace. It wasn’t fair that God had givenso much talent to someone who was wasting it on junk food jingles.
I pulled myright monitor out of my ear and stepped over to him. He pulled his out andcontinued to sit relaxed on his stool, smiling smugly up at me.
“I want you toplay the G,” I stressed.
