Page 9 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

CHAPTER FOUR

Freddie

Ivy appears in the doorway of the room set up for the pre-concert meet-and-greet and meets my eye.

The tension collecting in my shoulders eases at the sight of her.

I don’t mind interacting with fans—most of the time, I really enjoy it.

But it’s always easier when Ivy is around.

She keeps me grounded, but she also has a way of sensing possible problems before they happen.

The number of times she’s stepped in, gentle but firm, and steered fans away—it’s too many to count.

She always says the right thing, emphasizes precisely what people need to hear to remember who they are and what they aren’t entitled to.

Information about my personal life. My signature on any of their body parts.

Kisses, even on cheeks. Any of my bodily fluids.

Yes—people have asked. And no. You don’t want to know why.

Ivy lifts her eyebrows in question, and I give her a nod, then square my shoulders and take a few deep breaths.

She disappears back down the hall, then reappears thirty seconds later with a line of fans directly behind her.

Last tour, meet-and-greets were for VIP guests—the ones who paid ridiculous amounts of money to attend and have access to a private signing.

I appreciate those fans, but this tour, we wanted to do something different.

So the only people who get a meet-and-greet are random people Ivy picks out of the crowd.

People in the nosebleed seats. People who saved up to come to their first show and have no expectation of ever meeting me.

There’s something about the surprise of it all that makes it more fun.

I need the VIP guests—the ones who have the time and money to attend multiple shows and pay for front-row seats. But the nosebleed fans are just as valuable.

Ivy tells me a whole lore has developed online around the odds of getting picked for the secret meet-and-greet. People know it happens, and they’ve developed all kinds of theories about how people are chosen.

They’re all making it too complicated because it’s completely random.

Ivy used to wander the crowds and pick people herself.

But after a few shows, fans started to recognize her.

So then she started working with event staff—not my staff, but people working the venues—instructing them on how to search the crowds.

Wayne moves into position behind me, arms folded across his midsection in a way that is both impressive and intimidating. Hopefully, he’ll only have to stand there. I’m never so happy as I am when I’m paying my security team for nothing.

We make eye contact, and he lifts an eyebrow. “You good? ”

I roll my neck a few times and nod, but my head isn’t quite in the game, and I wonder if that’s why he’s asking. If he somehow senses that I’ve got too much on my mind to feel any enthusiasm about meeting fans.

Fans need me to be happy. To be on.

It doesn’t matter if I’ve got it in me or not.

I watch as Ivy leads everyone through the ropes that will keep the line organized while people wait for their turn.

The setup is pretty simple. I stand at the front of the room next to a banner that shows the concert logo, Ivy stands with me so she’s available to take photos, and there’s a table to the left of us where people pick up their signed merch.

Once everyone is in and event staff have taken control of the line, Ivy steps up beside me.

“Smile, Freddie,” she whispers, clearly sensing the same thing Wayne did. “You’re having fun, remember?”

Right. Fun. I give my head a quick shake and force a smile as the first person in line steps up.

This used to be fun. It should be fun. But it suddenly occurs to me I can’t quite remember the last time it was.

“How are you?” I say to the woman in front of me. I hold out my hand, and she takes it, but then she squeezes her eyes closed, her whole body shaking as she takes several deep breaths.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The sincerity in her voice turns something over in my heart, and my bad mood vanishes.

What’s wrong with me?

I get to make music for a living, and that’s no small thing.

And it’s because of people like her that it’s possible.

“There you are,” Ivy whispers. “You’ve got this. ”

I shoot her a grateful glance, then wrap my free hand around the back of the woman’s fingers so her hand is cupped in both of mine. “It’s happening,” I say gently. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Darcy,” she whispers, eyes still closed.

“Hi, Darcy,” I say. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

“I don’t think so,” she says, and I let out a chuckle.

“I bet you can.”

She presses her lips together, then slowly cracks one eye open.

I grin. “Nice to see you.”

She breathes out a stuttering breath and finally smiles, tears brimming in her eyes.

“Should we take a photo?”

She nods, and Ivy steps up, holding out her hand for Darcy’s phone. Ivy moves Darcy into place in front of the backdrop, and I step up beside her, pushing my hands into my back pockets as I lean in just enough to look friendly without actually touching her.

Ivy holds up the phone, then pauses. “Actually, wait,” she says, stepping toward Darcy. She fixes something with her clothes—I can’t see what—then steps back again. “Maybe prop your hand on your hip?” Ivy says, and Darcy must do it because Ivy nods. “Right. Perfect. That looks better.”

I’m used to this part of Ivy’s involvement.

I asked her once why she couldn’t just take the picture, and she explained that a once-in-a-lifetime meet-and-greet with someone’s favorite artist should not be ruined by bad angles or inept photography.

If she can spend four seconds to help someone look cute standing beside me, she’s going to do it.

I’ve always appreciated that Ivy cares like this. That she wants these moments to feel special for people .

As the meet-and-greet progresses, I smile my way through a lot of photos and happy tears and giggling teenagers, but the last woman in line gives me pause.

She can’t be older than twenty, wearing a black tank top and jeans, her arms covered in tattoos. It only takes me a second to realize they’re my tattoos.

The lightness that’s carried me through the meet-and-greet so far evaporates, replaced by a heaviness that settles into my gut. I force myself to smile anyway.

“Hey,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m Freddie.”

She gives me a confident smile. “Obviously,” she says. “I’m Leah.”

“Hi, Leah. Thanks for being here.”

She leans a little closer. “I have eleven tattoos,” she says, a quiet intensity in her tone.

“They all match. Or they almost match. I’m trying to get them as close as I possibly can.

I’m saving money for the rest—all seventeen—though I’ve read there’s a secret number eighteen that no one knows about.

Want to fill me in? Then I could match all of them. ”

I push my hands into my pockets and take a deep breath. It’s pretty frequent that I see someone who has a tattoo inspired by my music. I like it most when people do song titles or lyrics because it means I wrote something that resonated.

But I’m less comfortable when people try to match a tattoo that I have.

This is the first time I’ve met someone who’s trying to match all of them.

Ivy steps closer. “We’re running out of time, Freddie. Maybe just a quick picture?”

I give my head a small shake, a silent communication to Ivy that I’ve got this. I appreciate what she’s trying to do, but if there’s any chance I can stop this woman from getting ink I’m guessing she’ll regret in a few years, I have to try.

“Leah, how old are you?” I gently ask.

She swallows, a new uneasiness flitting across her expression. “Nineteen.”

I nod as I reach behind me to pick up a tour poster so I can sign it for her. “Have you ever been in love?”

She frowns at this question. “Um, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Do you want to be? Not with me,” I quickly add. “This is not a proposition. Just generally.”

She still looks confused, but she answers the question anyway. “I mean, sure. Don’t most people?”

I hold her gaze, hoping I’m not making a mistake when I say, “Do me a favor, okay? Don’t get any more tattoos. At least not ones that look like mine.”

A blush climbs her cheeks, and she chokes out an embarrassed laugh. “Why not?”

“Because one day, you’re going to meet someone.

You’ll fall in love. Maybe you’ll get married.

Get a dog. Have a couple of kids. You’ll have a whole life.

And I will not be that important to you.

” I take a step forward, crouching down the slightest bit to catch her downward gaze, to implore her to look at me.

“I’m just a guy, Leah. I love that you love my music.

That means the world to me. And your artwork—it’s amazing.

But if you get more ink, get something that speaks to you.

Something that maps your history. Not mine. ”

She takes a deep breath. “I’ve never thought of it like that.” Her expression is earnest when she asks, “Is that what yours do? Your tattoos map your history?”

I nod. “Moments. People. They all remind me of something that matters to me. ”

“Freddie, the time,” Ivy repeats. “Mellow Mood just took the stage.”

I nod, then look back at Leah. “Want to get that picture?”

“Yes! Definitely,” Leah says. She pulls out her phone and hands it to Ivy, then steps up next to me. “Thanks for the advice,” she says after Ivy snaps a few photos. “I appreciate it.”

As soon as Leah is gone, Ivy hands me a water bottle and motions toward a back door that will keep us away from any fans. “Sorry for rushing you,” she says. “We’re fifteen minutes over schedule, and Seth is seconds away from completely losing his mind.”

“He always thinks I need more downtime than I do,” I say as I follow her out the door. “I’ll be fine.” I fall into step beside her as we head down the hall toward my dressing room.