Page 22 of Saving Ian Pope

“Right now? My sobriety has always been important, Jack, and Ivy isn’t a bad influence.” I snatched a pair of black pants from the back of a chair and packed them down on top of the rest of my clothes. “I don’t even blame Jessica for my issues. It’s all on me, always has been.”

“WhereisIvy, anyway.” Jack looked around the room for her to materialize.

“She’s waiting in her car out front. Do you have some cash on you? I want to tip the valet parking attendants for letting her stay there.”

“I’ll give you the money as long as I can meet this paragon of virtue.” Jack returned to the bathroom to check the shower and then opened the minibar to give it the once over.

I rolled my eyes. “Nothing’s missing from the minibar. Let’s go. You can check me out later.”

I hitched my backpack over one shoulder and dragged my suitcase down the carpeted hallway. I couldn’t wait to get out of here. No matter how nice the hotel was it always felt like a prison to me.

As I strode through the lobby, Jack dogged my steps, his six foot plus frame slightly hunched. Jack had been part of my team for about two years, added just after the previous failed attempt at recovery. My therapist had suggested new friends and new experiences, and that had worked—for a while.

I’d met my ex, Jessica at a party, drinking, and I’d jumped right in with her. She was my excuse for falling off the wagon because I wanted an excuse. Unlike Jack, I never blamed Jessica, but our relationship had grown toxic. I broke it off with her before going into rehab for the third time. I figured we’d pick up where we left off when I got out—and so did she—but this go-around I had to try a different approach.

I traveled with a couple of friends to some out-of-the-way places—hiked in Nepal, surfed in Bali, fished in Montana. When the record company pressured me for new music—or else—I thought I was in a good place, but I’d been fooling myself, the craving for booze always on my periphery. That’s why I hadn’t returned to England right away to see my little girl, Thea, even though I missed her more than anything. I had to be a better person first, and Thea’s mother had agreed.

“Money?” I held out my hand to Jack, and he clapped several twenties in my palm.

“Where is she?” Jack cupped his hand over his face, scanning the curb in front of the hotel.

“She parked farther down.”

The two attendants who’d been here when we arrived scurried towards me and Jack.

I waved them off. “Just hopping in the blue car up ahead. Thanks for letting her park there.” I stuffed some bills into their hands and made a beeline for Ivy’s car.

She must’ve been watching her rearview because she hopped out and popped her trunk. Her cropped white jeans hugged her in all the right places, and her floaty blue blouse hung loosely right above her hips—effortlessly sexy, freshly beautiful. Every time I saw her, I felt like sweeping her in my arms and kissing her—but I didn’t want to give Jack any more ammunition. He figured I’d fallen too hard, too fast and would end up in the same predicament as I had with Jessica.

But this was different. Ivy was different. I was different.

“It’s about time. Those valets were ready to pounce to get me to move my old junker out of their beautiful driveway.” She shoved her sunglasses into her auburn hair, the sun glinting off the red tint. “That’s all you have? I was expecting more.”

“That’s it.” I stepped to the side when Jack joined us, fumbling for a cigarette. “Ivy, this is Jack Davies. Jack, Ivy Chase.”

Ivy thrust out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jack. Sorry for stealing your traveling companion.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow, anyway. It’s all good.” Jack shoved the cig behind his ear and shook Ivy’s hand, assessing her head to toe.

If she sensed his scrutiny, she didn’t seem to mind.

“Did you enjoy your friend’s panel at the book festival? Ian told me your friend wrote a true crime book. I’ve read a lot of true crime, especially from Ann Rule. Have you ever read her stuff?”

I didn’t know what Jack expected from Ivy, but clearly not this. Grinning, I hoisted my bag into the back of Ivy’s car.

Jack tilted his head to one side and scooped his thinning blond hair back from his forehead. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You absolutely have to read ‘The Stranger Beside Me,’ which she wrote about Ted Bundy. She actually knew him and worked with him on a suicide prevention hotline, of all things. Isn’t that wild? It’s fascinating, and I think it reveals things about Ann that she probably didn’t even realize.”

I slammed the hatchback. “Anyway...” Ivy took my hand and kissed me on the mouth. She didn’t have the same reservations about giving Jack ammunition. “...you should read that book. What’s your friend’s name and the name of his book? I’ll check it out. Always up for supporting my fellow authors.”

“Oh, yes, brilliant. I’ll text that info to Ian, and he can give it to you.”

“Perfect.” Ivy aimed a dazzling smile at Jack. “Again, nice meeting you. Hope you have a safe flight home.” She pivoted and hopped into her car.

Jack stood, as if stunned, for a few seconds. Then he shook his head. “She’s...”

“I know, right? Totally different. You don’t have to worry about me. Enjoy your flight.” I squeezed Jack’s shoulder as I grabbed his hand.

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