Page 13 of Saving Ian Pope

Disgraced Phil Spector’s wall of sound filled the car, and I sang along with Ronnie as I buzzed down the window. The fog’s density diminished the farther I drove away from the coast.

After a few more choruses of oh, oh, oh, oh, I noticed Ian’s silence beside me. I jerked my head to the side and stopped singing.

Holding up his hands, he said, “Don’t stop. I was enjoying the concert. You’re a good singer.”

“Ha! Don’t be patronizing. I’m karaoke-level decent.” I turned my attention back to the road when the light turned green. “Do you like Ronnie Spector and The Ronettes?”

“I like this song—and I like the way you sing it.” He scratched his chin. “Do you prefer older music?”

“I suppose I do, but I like all music.” I tucked my hair, which had become wild in the damp ocean air, behind my ear. “I like your music.”

“Oh-ho, now who’s being patronizing?” He rubbed his arms as if suddenly chilled.

I turned down Ronnie and bit my bottom lip. “I’m being honest. Why wouldn’t I be? I like your voice—it’s strong and versatile, warm and rich.”

“Thank you.” He turned his head to stare out the window.

He must hear it all the time. I’d heard it from his fans tonight—the gushing, the compliments, the love. And again, the oddity of his life struck me anew. Was it worse to be lonely by yourself or lonely among a group of people who professed to adore you only to turn on you the minute you slipped?

Lonely? I gave myself a mental slap. Why the hell would Ian Pope be lonely? Just because he’d found himself with nothing to do on a Saturday night in LA didn’t mean he was lonely. He’d probably been partying all week and decided to tone it down on his last few days. And it couldn’t get more toned down than spending his evening on a Ferris wheel, eating fish from a paper plate.

So, I’d drive him to my place, and he’d go back to his world. He could pat himself on the back for being nice to the quirky little romance writer. I’d have an adventure to talk about at parties and at the next meeting of my writers’ group.

My fingers strayed to my lips, the imprint of his kiss still vibrant. But I’d always have that kiss on the Ferris wheel.

All too soon, I turned onto my street and rolled to the curb in front of my building. “Should I let you off here, and you can call a car? It shouldn’t be long. There are a lot of cars prowling this area on Saturday night.”

He snapped his fingers. “I left my books in your book bag.”

“I can run and get them for you while you’re getting a ride.” I threw my car in Park and reached for the ignition.

Ian put his tattooed hand on mine. “I’d rather come in, if that’s alright?”

“Sure, yes, of course, absolutely.” I put the car in gear and squealed away from the curb before I could string together another series of assents. I pulled into my parking spot, and we exited, walking through the courtyard shared by the four units in the complex.

Classical music floated from Gregory and Stan’s place. The scent of jasmine from my own patio permeated the air, and a light breeze stirred the dead blossoms of the bougainvillea scattered on the ground. I moved forward as if in a dream, Ian following so closely behind me, I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.

With my heart pounding, I attacked the deadbolt with my key, and my key chain dropped to the ground. Ian crouched down and swept it up.

“I’ll do it.”

I stepped to the side to make room for him, and his arm brushed mine as he fitted the key into the lock and turned it with a click. He shoved the key into the door handle and turned it, shoving it open, at the same time.

The door swung wide with a creak, and I hesitated before stepping into the entryway, as if crossing this threshold would alter my life forever. Ian followed me and closed the door behind us. Habit had me reaching back and turning the deadbolt.

Ian dropped the keys on the floor and placed his hands on my shoulders with a caressing touch. He walked me backward and pressed me against the wall, his mouth hungrily seeking mine.

I tasted the spearmint of his gum, but he must’ve swallowed it or spit it out. I plucked mine out of my mouth quickly and stuck it to the wall behind me. Reaching up, I burrowed my fingers into his thick, wavy hair, stiff with the spray of salt water, and guided his head down to mine. I stood on my tiptoes, and our lips met with a sizzle. The heat snaked through me, and I sagged against him.

He curled one arm around my waist, the fingers of his other hand lightly stroking my neck as he invaded my mouth with his tongue, seeking that connection we’d felt on the Ferris wheel.

I pressed my body against his, craving his touch, his closeness. He broke off our kiss, and his lips roamed my face, pressing against my forehead, my temple, my cheeks, my chin. When he returned to my mouth, I sucked his bottom lip between my teeth.

We’d sort of rolled down the wall, closer to the door to the back rooms. I hooked both arms around his neck and hopped up to wrap my legs around his waist—the signature short girl move. He smoothed his hands along my bare thighs and tucked them beneath my ass to hoist me higher, burying his face in my neck.

Somehow, we still had our clothes on. I wriggled out of his grasp and slid down his body. Feet firmly on the ground, sort of, I peeled off my shirt and dropped it to the floor. I craved the feel of his skin against mine and grabbed a handful of his T-shirt and yanked it up. He raised his arms, and I pulled it over his head.

His bare, chiseled chest looked like a Michelangelo sculpture, and I ran my hands over his smooth skin, tracing along his muscles. He gasped as the flat of my hand reached the waistband of his jeans. With my fingertips, I traced the tail-end of a green tattoo that snaked across his hip bone.

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