“Yeah, that’s what the marquee says.” Perry winked. “Sabrina was here earlier, but she had to jet.”
“I just bet she did.” His voice was deadpan.
I stuck my hand out. “Zoe Manning. Interim tour photographer and plus one.”
Ian glanced down at me, his dimple reappearing. Evidently, he liked the plus one comment. Girlfriend felt weird on my tongue, but I didn’t really know what else to label myself as. Not that I needed labels. Personally, I hated them, but he was starting to relax so I’d go with it for now.
“Sabrina said she sent you a text.”
Ian dug into his pocket. I tugged down his hand to see. Again, that dimple came out, but he let me see the text.
Be nice. New band, new start. We’ll discuss after the shows.
I let his hand go. “Your manager is something else.”
“Tell me about it.” He quickly tapped a text to her and tucked his phone back into his pocket. “Pleased to meet you, Perry. I guess we have some introductions to make.” Ian slid his hand down to join with mine.
He was much more relaxed. I wasn’t quite sure why. The text must have meant a little more to him than it did to me.
“Are you a studio musician? Or hired gun, or just haven’t found the right band?”
“That’s a question for the drive.” Perry threw a smile over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs. She gave their driver a huge smile. “Almost ready to go, Benny?”
Evidently, Mr. Beard was a Benny. Seemed to fit him well enough. “Ten minutes, Miss Perry.”
“It’s just Perry.”
“Whatever you say, Miss Perry.”
Ian nodded at the driver and tugged me up the stairs behind him.
A blond with legs up to her damn ears was sitting in some cross-legged pose that only bendy sorts could sit in. Like the hot yoga people who were all over J Town. She was sitting across from a guy sprawled on the ancient bench seat, denim-clad legs kicked out in that relaxed way men seemed to be born with.
The bus was very clean, just obviously from another era. The seventies plaid on the seats masked some of the wear, but it was cramped and smelled like it had been attacked with a steam cleaner to get old cigarette and body smells out of the carpet and upholstery.
Ian tucked his free hand in his pocket and his grip tightened on my hand. “Hey. Um, thanks for coming out to help. I’m Ian.” He cleared his throat, then gave me an extra squeeze before letting my hand free to shake hands with the sandy-haired guy in the Led Zeppelin shirt and ancient jeans. Battered combat boots with a million miles on them were half-laced with argyle socks peeking from the twisted tongues.
“Hey, man. Grant Harrison, your new guitarist.”
The blond unfolded herself and stood. I resisted the urge to climb onto Ian’s back and mark him. She was unbelievably gorgeous. Yoga Barbie with just enough rockstar edge to make my hackles rise.
A girl who would actually suit him. Not like me, a crazy artist who got so wrapped up in her own head she forgot to eat, text, and come up for air for days at a time.
“Ariana Larkin, but my friends call me Lark.” She shook Ian’s hand then mine. “I’m your bassist.”
“Zoe. Your tour photographer for the weekend.”
Ian draped his arm around my shoulders. “And my…what did you call it? Plus one?”
Lark grinned. “You guys are so cute. This is going to be fun. I have a good vibe.”
“Oh, here we go.” Grant got up and moved to the big chair at the back of the bus where a television was set up with game consoles.
Lark waved him off. “Ignore him. We’ve played in a few bands together over the years.”
“And studios.” Grant pulled huge over-ear headphones on and turned on some game with zombies.
Ian tugged on his bottom lip. “We haven’t rehearsed or anything. Do you guys know the songs?”