Page 16 of One More Made Up Love Song
Maybe I’ll sleep when I’m thirty.
CHAPTER FOUR
Freddie
Ivy appearsin 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 theyaren’tentitled to. Information about my personal life. My signature onanyof 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. Shedisappears 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 beon.
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. Itshouldbe 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?”
