Chapter 8
IAN
I loosened my grip from the edge of my seat as Ivy wheeled into the driveway of the Beverly Hills Hotel, toward its famous sign and beneath its iconic green and white striped awning. She’d driven like a maniac down Sunset Boulevard. Must mean she was in a hurry for me to pick up my stuff and stay with her.
She screeched to a halt several feet past the valet parking attendants. “I’ll wait here.”
“Are you sure?”
She adjusted her rearview mirror. “As long as these guys with their neat black vests and bowties let me.”
“I’ll talk to them. I won’t be long.”
I pushed open the car door and stopped the two valets heading towards Ivy’s car. “She’s waiting for me. Is that okay?”
They backed off. “Of course, sir.”
I’d have to get some cash from Jack to tip them on my way out or have them add something to the room charge. Jack. Time to face the ogre. Sometimes it seemed as if Jack cared more about my career than I did—of course, that didn’t take much these days.
I sailed through the lobby, waved to a few fans some busy bellhop had herded toward the door, and punched the elevator button for my room on the fourth floor, down the hall from Jack’s room. I’d texted Jack earlier to let him know what time I’d be here, and the guy must’ve had his ear pressed against his door because the minute I stepped into my room, Jack called me from a few doors down.
“Hey, Ian.”
He appeared in my doorway, his face flushed, as if he’d run a half marathon instead of twenty feet. I held the door open for him, and Jack followed me into the room.
I flipped open my suitcase on the floor with my foot. “Did you have a good time with your friends? How’d you like the book festival.”
“Yeah, yeah. It was good, mate.”
Jack sliced his hand through the air to put an end to the trivial conversation. “Who’s this Ivy person?”
“Ivy Chase.”
I slid several shirts from the hangers in the closet and folded them on the bed. “I told you. She’s a romance author I met at the book festival—so cheers to you for that great suggestion. We really hit it off, and I’m going to spend a few weeks with her. But don’t worry. Ever since yesterday, I’ve had lyrics running through my head and melodies thumping in my veins. I have some great ideas for some songs, and she has work to do, as well. I can get some serious writing done here.”
Jack folded his skinny arms, bunching the sleeves of his polo shirt with his hands. “You already have songs for the album, Ian.”
“They’re shit. You know it, and I know it. I’m not happy with any of it. They’re not reflective of who I am now—after rehab.”
I stuffed my folded shirts into the suitcase and pivoted to the cavernous bathroom, bigger than Ivy’s kitchen.
Jack followed me. “How’s that going?”
“My recovery?”
I snatched my toiletry bag from the hook on the back of the door and loaded it with products from the sink. “It’s good. I feel good. Honestly haven’t had a craving since I met Ivy.”
“Does she drink? Use?”
“She may drink. I didn’t ask her, but she didn’t drink anything around me. Drugs? I doubt it.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m feeling good.”
Jack chewed on his thumbnail, a habit he acquired when he worked for the management team overseeing Five2. “Have you been on social media lately? D-did you see...?
“I saw it, and I don’t wanna talk about it.”
I slammed the bathroom door in Jack’s face and changed clothes; the sand still clinging to my jeans dusted the tiles on the floor as I shook them out.
Jack yelled through the door. “You’ve said good around five times now, even though you’ve seen what’s trending on social media. Don’t give me a load of bollocks, Ian.”
I swung open the door, and Jack scooted out of the way as I charged past him with my toiletry bag with Jack still yelling at my back. “It’s always good, mate, until it’s not. Your sobriety is too important right now to risk being around a bad influence.”
“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.”
“Where is Ivy, 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.
When I joined Ivy in the car, I felt as if I’d turned some kind of corner in my life. I snapped on my seatbelt and twisted toward her. “Where to?”
“I know you like art, so I’m taking you to the Getty Center.”
She wheeled away from the curb and stuck her hand out the window, waving at the parking attendants. “Ever been there?”
“No.”
She clicked her tongue. “Philistine.”
“How do you know I like art?”
“When I was scrolling through your past on my phone last night, I didn’t see just the bad stuff.”
She rubbed my arm, giving me chills despite the heat inside the car. “Some of the good stuff snuck in there, too. I read that you’re an artist, had done some sketches for charity, and that you often contribute to arts foundations.”
“I wouldn’t call myself an artist, but I do appreciate art. Can’t wait for our first adventure.”
I snapped my fingers. “Step on it.”
***
I didn’t know what I’d been expecting from the museum, but a tram ride from the parking lot to the top of a hill wasn’t it. The views from the grounds were amazing, and Ivy could barely get me inside the museum to look at the actual art.
As I gazed at the city skyline with the mountains in the background, she tugged my sleeve. “We don’t have that much time. Let’s look at the paintings.”
I allowed Ivy to drag me through the Impressionists, which I appreciated, but my interest perked up when we walked into another gallery with several portraits.
We entered one room of 17th Century portraitists and like a homing beacon, I zeroed in on a particular painting of a woman in a dark green, off-the-shoulder dress. Something about her expression arrested me, and I stood before her, my gaze roaming the canvas. I glanced at Ivy, her head tilted to one side as she studied a painting of a man in a ruffled collar holding an old-fashioned instrument.
When I looked back at the woman in the painting, I noticed that the look in her eyes reminded me of Ivy’s—something guarded, even secretive. And I had to admit, for all Ivy’s openness, she always seemed to hold something back. Her eyes, sometimes green, sometimes hazel, were the keepers of her secrets, just like...I leaned into the painting...the duchess, here.
I aimed my phone at the QR code on the label next to the painting and sank down on a bench in front of it to read about the Dutch master who’d painted the lady and the lady herself. Turns out, the duchess was a spy.
Ivy touched my shoulder. “Are you tired?”
“I’m reading about this painting. I really like it.”
I slipped a flyer from my museum program guide and turned it over to its blank side. “Do you mind if I sit here for a minute and sketch this and take some notes. Do you have a pen in your bag?”
“I think so.”
She dipped her hand inside her bag and withdrew a pen. “I’m going out to the gardens. You can meet me there when you’re done. Do you want something to eat?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you out there.”
The pen was already moving across the page in light strokes.
Once I’d taken a picture of the painting, done a passable sketch of the duchess, and taken some notes, I stood up and stretched. When I folded the piece of paper and shoved it into my back pocket, I knew I had the beginnings of a song.
I wandered outside, squinted, and clapped my sunglasses back on my face. Ivy had insisted I wear my hat again and I’d obliged her, but I knew the disguise wasn’t always adequate to keep my fans at bay.
I found her on the grass near a fountain with two sandwiches and two bottles of water. I sat beside her and kissed her on the side of her head, warmed by the sun.
She repositioned herself on her back and put her head in my lap, looking up at my face. “So, did you have a connection with that painting?”
Running my thumb over the little bump on the bridge of her nose, I said, “I did, yeah. She reminded me of you.”
“You mean sexy and irresistible?”
She lifted her sunglasses and batted her eyelashes.
“Mysterious.”
“Moi?”
She rolled over and grabbed the packaged sandwiches. “Turkey or ham?”
“I’ll take the ham.”
She was an expert at avoidance. Maybe she was a spy like the duchess.
As Ivy tossed me the sandwich, a woman stepped into the line of fire, and the sandwich hit her on the back of the leg. It didn’t even faze her. “Sorry to interrupt, but would you mind signing my Getty Center map?”
“Be happy to.”
I grabbed my ham sandwich on the ground before the woman crushed it under her heel.
Ivy stood up and dusted grass from the back of her white pants. Unwrapping her own sandwich, she rolled her eyes at me and stepped away. She really didn’t like this fame game.
I was about to get to my feet, but another woman crouched beside me, thrusting her map and pen in my face. “Big fan of Five2Go. Do you ever talk to Sam? I’m sorry, but he was my favorite. You were my next favorite, though.”
Why did they always have to go there? “Haven’t spoken to him in a while, but he’s doing well, ain’t he?”
“I went to his concert two years ago. Hope he tours again soon.”
She shoved her sunglasses into her hair, her gaze probing my face. “You haven’t been on tour for a while, have you?”
“Planning something for next year.”
I handed the map back to her.
“That’s great. I’ll definitely go if you come to LA.”
She leaned in close, cupping her hand around her mouth as if to tell me a big secret. “Sam may have been my favorite, but you always had the best voice and stage presence.”
“Well, thanks for that.”
I reached for my sandwich. “You have a good rest of your day.”
As I prepared to unwrap my sandwich, I noticed two women huddled by the fountain where Ivy had retreated. One of the women pointed at me, and I braced for incoming traffic. This time I stood up. I didn’t like being on the ground when my fans approached me. I’d always had nightmares about getting trampled in my Five2 days.
I pasted on a smile as they walked toward me. My expression encouraged their tentative approach. Maybe I should just ignore them, but I couldn’t do that to my fans. They’d given me so much.
“Ian! Can we take a picture with you?”
They were already fussing with their phones to get to their cameras.
“Sure, sure.”
The taller of the two women came in for a hug, and I wrapped my arms around her while her friend took our picture. She then got her selfie.
They traded places, and the tall blonde took pics of me and her brunette friend, and then the friend took a selfie. All smiles.
As I handed her phone back to the shorter brunette, she flushed pink. “You know, we don’t believe all that stuff that was on social media the past few days.”
“Oh, uh, appreciate that.”
My gaze darted to Ivy, still munching on her sandwich by the fountain, several feet away. “Enjoy the museum.”
They walked away, looking at their phones, and I made a beeline for Ivy, my head down. I didn’t need any more fan encounters today, especially not in front of Ivy. She didn’t seem to be much of a social media fan, which suited me perfectly, right now.
Hopping up on the fountain beside her, I said, “You didn’t have to run away.”
She studied me as she chewed. “Oh, yeah, I did. I melt into the background when they swarm you...and that’s exactly where I want to be.”
“I’m sorry.”
Waving her sandwich at me, she said, “Don’t apologize. You clearly enjoy it, and so do they. I’m not going to rain on anyone’s parade, but I don’t have to march along in it and get all wet. Do you want to check out the decorative arts or the drawings? We probably have time for just one.”
“Definitely drawings, but I need to eat my lunch first.”
I peeled the tight plastic from my sandwich and took a few bites as Ivy scrolled through her phone. I hoped she hadn’t decided to check out the social media sites. I blurted out. “I have a song in my pocket.”
“Huh?”
She jerked her head up and stashed her phone in her bag. “What’s that supposed to mean? Is that some British boyband code for a hard-on?”
I blew out a breath, relaxing my shoulders. “That painting of the duchess back there tweaked something in my imagination. Does it happen like that with your writing? Some image or headline starts you on a path of creativity?”
“Yeah, but usually my inspiration comes from tragic news stories and weird crimes. Must be nice to be inspired by beauty, instead.”
She sidled closer to me so that our hips met.
We seemed to have complementary magnets installed in our bodies that drew us to each other—unless she was this touchy-feely with everyone. Her touch, her very presence soothed me. Did other things to me, as well, but she seemed to have the same need for physical contact with me as I did with her.
I bumped her hip. “Unfortunately, my motivation for songs doesn’t come only from the beautiful. There are enough songs of heartache and loss to tell you that.”
“I’d love to hear the song or read it, later, if you’re inclined to share.”
She’d inched closer to me and entwined her pinkie finger around mine.
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
I balled up the paper from my sandwich and shot it into a trash can. “Let’s go check out those drawings.”
I was inclined to share a lot with Ivy...just not everything.
***
As Ivy navigated the freeway back to her place, she drummed her thumbs on the steering wheel in time to the music on the radio—oldies, of course. “I texted my roommate, Chloe, when we were at the museum to give her a heads-up.”
“Okay.”
My hand tightened on my seatbelt. “Did she have any objections?”
“She hasn’t responded, yet, but I’m sure she’ll be fine with it. Her boyfriend lives in San Diego, but he travels up here quite often, so there’s not much she can say—not that she would. Besides...”
she flicked back her hair “—I own the place.”
“She helps you pay your mortgage.”
“Yeah, and she doesn’t have to live with me. She could afford to rent a place on her own or move in with Trent in San Diego. But she’s my bestie and has my back.”
“Is she a romance writer, too?”
She barked out a laugh. “God, no. She’s a social media strategist. She’s on contract with some big company right now to update their marketing approach. I don’t think she has a romantic bone in her body.”
I ran my tongue along my teeth in my dry mouth. Social media savvy Chloe could pose a problem for me. I’d been hoping to skate through this current crisis with Ivy none the wiser.
First real bump in the road since I got out of rehab. It might’ve been enough to trigger me before, but I felt different this time, stronger. I ran my hand along Ivy’s thigh. “Can’t wait to meet her.”
Ten minutes later, Ivy turned onto her street and glided to a stop in front of her house. She popped her hatchback, and I yanked out my bag and stacked my backpack on top of it. “Thanks, again for doing this. I hate staying in hotels.”
“I can imagine.”
She grabbed my arm and did a little skip.
She probably couldn’t imagine, but I didn’t need to give her any more gory details. I wanted to be open with her, but some things were better left for later in the relationship—if we were going to have a later.
When we got to the entrance of her place, the front door stood open and music poured out the screen door—not mine. I didn’t recognize the song, but it had a ska beat that made me want to bop my head.
Ivy pulled open the screen door and muttered, “I told her before to keep this locked.”
She held the door open for me as I dragged my bag into the foyer. The music abruptly ended, and I glanced up to see a figure looming at the end of the short hallway. A woman, taller than Ivy—but then who wasn’t—had her hands on her hips, a black ponytail swinging behind her as if she’d just stopped dancing or jogging in place.
Ivy tossed her keys into the basket. “Hey, Chloe. Did you get my text?”
“I did.”
The look she shot me from a pair of icy blue eyes beneath a dark fringe chilled my blood. “I messaged you back. You obviously didn’t read it.”
“I-I was driving. My phone was in my purse.”
Ivy stood between me and the avenging woman, who looked as if she was ready to pounce any second. Ivy’s head ping-ponged from me to her roommate. “This is Ian.”
Chloe wagged her finger in the air. “Yeah, we all know Ian...and his dick. I’m very familiar with Ian’s dick. Everyone’s seen Ian’s dick by now.”