Love & Luck(45)

This was exactly the kind of musical fact that Ian loved to geek out over. Thanks to Ian, I knew tons of odd music trivia—things like Paul McCartney hearing the melody for “Yesterday” in a dream, and Bill Wyman being asked to join the Rolling Stones solely because he had access to an amplifier. No wonder Ian’s knee had graduated from bouncing to marching. Seeing something as iconic to him as the Red Room was his dream come true. “Okay . . .” I studied Rowan’s grim face, allowing the “dot-dot-dot” to settle. Then I jabbed him in the shoulder. “So what’s the problem here? Why are you so nervous?”

Rowan exhaled, giving his glasses a shove. “I just don’t want to get caught trespassing. School’s about to start, and if I get in any kind of trouble with the law, I’ll get expelled.”

“?‘Trespassing’ is such a harsh word,” Ian said, a grin swallowing his face whole. “I prefer ‘unlawful entry.’?”

Trespassing? I transferred my jabbing finger from Rowan to Ian. “No way. Priority number one is keeping Mom and Dad from knowing about our side trip. Which means we are not doing anything that could potentially involve police.”

“No one is going to call the police.” Ian tugged on his hair. “Why are you guys being so dramatic? All we’re going to do is drive in there, snap a few photos, and get out. The owners will never even know we were there.”

“Until photos of their house show up online and then they remember that you heckled them with e-mails for a full month.” Rowan dragged his eyes away from the road and tapped his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. “What did that last e-mail from them say? Oh, yes. I believe their exact words were, ‘Come near our property and we will not hesitate to notify the authorities.’?”

“But they didn’t say which authorities,” Ian said, his smile still plastered on his face. “Maybe they meant the town water authorities. Or the leading authority on climate change.”

Oh, Ian.

This plan—whatever it entailed exactly—was so my brother. One part danger, two parts music trivia, three parts rebel. Add a handful of jalape?os and some marshmallows and we had ourselves the perfect Ian recipe. Nothing I said was going to matter. May as well conserve energy—I might need it for running. I tried to send Rowan an abandon-all-hope shrug, but his eyes locked onto the road.

“?‘Look for a mossy, broken-down fence a few kilometers past the bent speed limit sign,’?” Ian read from his phone. He stuck his head out into the wind, and his hair puffed into a large dandelion. “Addie, did you see that sign back there? Did it look kind of bent to you?”

“It was a Guinness advertisement,” I said.

“But, Ian, what about the fan who got arrested?” Rowan hadn’t known Ian long enough to understand what he was up against. “The break-in wasn’t that long ago. You know the owners are going to be on high alert. They’re probably sleeping with shotguns under their pillows.”

“A fan got arrested?” I flicked the back of Ian’s head. Was the fan part of his brain completely overriding the common-sense part?

Ian’s smile only grew. “That was a whole year ago, and that girl was a mega stalker. You don’t just walk into a stranger’s house. Not when they’re home.”

“Because you only walk into a stranger’s house when they’re not home?” I clarified.

“Oh, she did more than walk in.” Rowan pulled his glasses off and wiped at his eyes in a move that made him look like an old, tired businessman—but because it was Rowan, a cute, old, tired businessman. “She made a ham-and-banana sandwich in the kitchen and then ate it while rolling around on the carpet. The owners were sleeping upstairs, and she woke them up.”

“Ew,” I wailed. “Ham and banana? Is that a Titletrack thing or an Irish thing?”

“Definitely not Irish,” Rowan said, a wry smile crossing his face. “Haven’t you heard? All we eat are potatoes and beef stew.”

Ian clasped his hands prayerlike in front of him and pushed his lower lip out in a pout. “Come on, guys. I promise not to make a gross sandwich and roll around on the carpet. No one will see us; no one will know.”

I shook my head disgustedly. “Ian, the lower-lip-pout thing stopped working about ten years ago.”

He pooched it out even more. “The lower lip pout is successful at least seventy-three percent of the time. How do you think I passed Espa?ol last year? Se?ora Murdock can never resist it.”

I shook my head impatiently. “Quit trying to change the subject. Rowan’s telling you that he doesn’t want to go to Torc Manor, which means we are not going to Torc Manor.”

“That was the bent speed limit sign!” Ian shrieked, hurling his body partially out the window. “We’re almost there. Rowan, we have to, have to, have to go.”

“Fine.” Rowan’s gaze swiveled back and forth from my brother to the road. “But listen to me. I cannot get caught. Cannot get caught. My parents are already in a constant state of stress. I can’t stir the pot by getting in trouble.”

“That’s it!” Ian yelled.

Rowan hit the brakes, and Ian all but threw himself out the window, extending his face toward the tall, ivy-covered fence. An oversize NO TRESPASSING sign cozied up to an even larger BEWARE OF DOGS sign.