Page 33 of Saving Ian Pope

“Yeah, this is all they had on such short notice.”

The driver hopped out and opened the door for us. “Greek Theatre, right?”

“That’s right.” Ivy ducked in first and as I slid along the leather seat, next to her, my knee hit a minibar. The little bottles clinked inside sending me a secret message, one I would’ve heeded six months ago.

She leaned against me and whispered in my ear, “Did you order a car with a minibar?”

“I think it just automatically comes with the ride. I’m good.” I tapped the cover on the bar. “Do you want some champagne? Wine?”

“Absolutely not.” She pressed her lips together in imitation of a teetotaling Prohibitionist. She hadn’t had one drink since we met. Whether she imbibed when she and Chloe went out with friends without me, I didn’t know, but I doubted it. I never smelled booze on her breath or tasted it on her lips.

Chloe drank her fair share of wine in front of me, under an evil eye from Ivy, but I didn’t feel any pressure. I hadn’t been lying to Jack when I’d told him I’d had no cravings for the first time since I’d been out of rehab. I wasn’t going to lie to myself that I didn’t feel like taking a drink—many times—since I’d left rehab, but the urge had disappeared since I’d met Ivy. She’d become my new addiction.

On the way to the venue, Ivy asked the driver, Nick, if she could hook up her phone to the Bluetooth. He agreed and Van’s voice started belting out songs. I recognized some of them, music my parents played at home, and my Irish bandmate, Conor, was a fan of his fellow Irishman.

Leaning against my arm, she said, “I like to play the music to get into the vibe, but he probably won’t be playing any of these songs. He usually plays songs from his current album and more recent releases. Some of his fans from the old days won’t go to his concerts because he refuses to play the old stuff, although he’ll sneak one in now and then.”

“That’s a luxury that comes with age. If I tried that, I think my fans would charge the stage and drag me off.” I gave a fake shiver.

“Yeah, I don’t know if it’s age so much as Van just doesn’t give a fuck.”

I murmured, “Must be nice.”

“Nick.” Ivy sat forward and tapped on Nick’s headrest. “Can I turn this one up?”

“You can do whatever you like, Ivy. In fact, I’ll do it for you.”

Electronic pinging filled the car and then Van started with a falsetto that I could appreciate and admire.

Ivy whispered, her lips brushing my ear. “Listen to the lyrics. This is us. We’re on the same wavelength.”

Just in case I didn’t heed her direction, Ivy sang along to the song, started dancing in her seat, and had Nick bopping along in the front. By the time we pulled up to the entrance of the Greek, we were in full party mode.

Before exiting the limo, I arranged for Nick to pick us up in the same spot and gave him a big tip just to make sure he didn’t forget.

We passed through the security line, and the sultry summer air seemed to press against me. I tipped my head back and sniffed. “It smells like pine, like fruity pine. You have pine trees in LA?”

“There are a lot of pine trees surrounding the venue, but I think they’re different from what you’d find up in the Pacific Northwest.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m having a hard time smelling that citrusy pine over that skunky weed.”

“Ha, I thought that was just another Southern California plant species.”

“It is.” She linked arms with me. “Does it bother you?”

“Weed was never one of my vices. Not a fan.” I took a deep breath. “I still smell that pine, though.”

I veered toward a concession booth. “Do you want something to drink? Margarita?”

“Are you trying to get me drunk, so you can take advantage of me later?” She pinched my side.

“Ivy, I don’t need to give you booze to get you going.” I draped my arm around her and pulled her close. “In fact, the thought of you drunk and out of control in the bedroom scares the shit out of me.”

“Then you can stop suggesting I drink alcohol. I don’t need it. I don’t want it. And I’m not going to drink it in front of someone who has a mere five months of recovery under his belt. But I will have a Diet Coke.”

“Ooh, walking on the wild side.”

I looked around at the crowd as I bought Ivy’s soda and a bottle of sparkling water for myself. Jack had the right idea to hire the paparazzi. My typical demographic would be swarming me at any other concert, but the aging, mellow potheads here barely gave me a second look. This outing would not have satisfied Jack or the record company without the planned ambush for later.

Once we made it to our seats and the music started, I forgot all about the pap stunt, the online smear campaign against me, and the pressure to produce my album. The bluesy, jazzy songs transported me to another realm, which sparked my imagination with words and phrases crowding my brain for release and the chance to become lyrics.

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