Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
RHYS
Here’s the problem with being famous: fans approach me with what they believe is a genuine level playing field. The reality? Hardwired expectations hum dangerously beneath their smiles and sincerity. Interaction with enough Crazies has proved their uncanny ability to memorize every minuscule detail of my life, and they hold on to them like religion.
They speculate and fictionalize.
Create this entire narrative in their minds.
Inevitably, I disappoint them when they realize hologram Rhys is just another guy. Not magic. Not mythical. And not available at their disposal twenty-four-seven.And they act bruised and disappointed if I wave them off, when all I want is to buy some fucking bananas in peace.
Witnessing a revamped opinion of me take over their faces is a weird hit. Like I somehow let them down.
I stare up at the bedroom ceiling with a grave realization settling over me. This Nero Vino gig felt safe. Five weeks in small-town Canada?Sold. The most aggro Canadians get is walking into a parking meter and saying sorry.
Or so I thought.
Now I’m stuck at a winery in a half-a-horse town, population five thousand and change, with Crazies hitting me from all sides.Anxiety crests, and I shut my eyes, breathing through the tension locking my shoulders and jaw. Myla texted me last night, and I’ll spare you the details other than stating the obvious: she is certifiable. I stupidly replied to her X-rated video with all the outrage I could muster and prayed her radio silence meant the end of it.
Wishful thinking.
My screen lit up like a firework display with a cascade of heart emojis and smiley faces.
MB: Sooorrrryyy! Just miiis you! When are u back?
Honestly? I’m beginning to worry in real time. Myla is crossing a line, and I don't have the energy to deal with Interpol or whoever handles the weirdos. After blocking her number, I feel better, but a lingering sense of unease remains.
Fans used to be chill once upon a time. There's a hysteria to them now that unsettles me. From my vantage point last night—crammed onto the floorboard of the Beemer—I saw no faces but heard the shrill desperation in their voices. A demand that I somehow owed them an appearance in exchange for stalking me.
Not a chance.
Not after that scene from London two years ago.
A group of us influencers scored VIP invites to a Wimbledon after-party hosted by Drake. The tunes rocked, and we partied hard, but the mob we got caught up in after—it was scary shit. I walked out of the club at midnight with some legit stars, and a screaming horde of fangirls stormed past the unprepared security-for-hire squeezed into their Suit Warehouse specials.They closed around us with the frenzy of vultures descending on a carcass.
It felt surreal, like being in the eye of a storm.
A cluster of humanity ebbing and flowing.
Hands grabbing at me.
A favorite t-shirt got ripped, and my scalp throbbed for days where a chunk of hair got yanked out.
I camped out in Corfu doing a month of solitary after that debacle.
And still, one of the Crazies stalked me there.
I roll onto my side, tucking a pillow between my legs, mind revving in overdrive. This racket—the internet race to the bottom—cannot continue. It is that simple. I need to pursue something different, but I can’t put my finger on the how-to. And what other skills do I have?Real acting? Not a chance, unless Brazzers is hiring.
Jizz in the vineyard? You got it!
Fuck me.
As I ruminate on paths and possibilities, my phone buzzes on the side table. I grab it, paranoia creeping in, half-expecting more Myla harassment. But it's Sawyer, trying me for the third time. I send him to the outer space of voicemail, knowing it will infuriate him. Yeah, I should be the bigger person and thank him for stepping up last night, but his ridiculous comment pissed me off.
My girlfriend and I need to Netflix and chill.
Is there anything worse than cowering on the floorboards of your brother’s pimpmobile, and then, hey, he decides to emasculate you?!What a jerk. Am I surprised? Not after I crashed his party last night. Concerned that his limited charms might sway Dani, I called every restaurant, knowing Sawyer, like Dad, would rather take a bullet than show up without a reservation.
Waiting for a table is what commoners do.
Was it my imagination, or did Dani look downright relieved to see my face?
She looked hot and sharp, flawlessly dressed. I own nothing that needs a hanger, but is it time to invest in a blazer? Hard to picture me and Dani hitting the town when her effortless dazzle outshines my best wrinkle-free tee times infinity.
Is my idle vibe holding her back? Or the five-week expiration date stamped on my forehead? She strikes me as the tactical type, risk-averse to messing around with a stranger who plans to hightail it home, paycheck cashed. The thing is, I don’t know how jazzed I am to head home. All that awaits is more of the same, as the world turns and another year of mindlessness drifts by.
But where do I go?
More importantly, how do Dani and I kick back with a glass of wine and work up to first base when she home-runned me on day three? I’ve never ping-ponged between the extremes of Nude Encounters of the First Kind and Dry Hump 101. Never felt this weird glow, like I’m radioactive. My mind and soul lit up. Thirty-six hours in each other's orbits, and I'm flailing like a man lost at sea.
I need to get a grip. Organize my thoughts, my life, and how to tranquilize the desperate urge to claim Dani’s mouth. And somehow escape these fangirls.
I check the time on my phone. Dani lands in an hour, along with Francis and Rita, to talk filming around a fleet of Ccrazies. I’m praying to God, this time, shit doesn't get weird.
Dani arrives first, hair twirled into a high bun. A weird tension crackles around her, like a whole other atmosphere. The very definition of preoccupied.
“Morning,” I say. “Come in. It looks like you could use a coffee.”
She throws me a relieved look. “That would be great."
Dani glides past me, curves wrapped tight in a purple dress and rocking nude heels with zippers on the back. Booty high and swinging. My heart goes a little nuts. Every time I see her, I feel this breathless high.
“Latte or cappuccino?” I ask.
“Whatever's easiest,” she says distractedly.
I find her eyes. “Everything cool?”
“Uhm, I came early so we could talk in private.” She clocks my open laptop on the kitchen island. “Am I interrupting anything?”
She would have, thirty minutes ago. Drawing is how I whiled away the hours of loneliness after landing solo in Europe. Dani has a leg up on me with design, but I can convincingly render real life. Enough that, after I captured her creamy pink folds studded with silver in my journal, it set off a chain reaction.
“I was in the middle of a PowerPoint to solve world hunger. But that can wait.”
I flash a smile hoping to enable one of hers. Bingo. Dani perches on a kitchen stool, and now I have the good fortune of not only making her laugh but the weight of her gaze warming my skin.
“You’re underrated as a comedian,” she says.
I join her at the island, ass on a stool, smacking the lid of my laptop shut. “Overrated in every other department.”
Her brow furrows. “Why would you say that?”
Why indeed did I shine a light into my dark interior world? Because it’s haunted me all morning. Not my cleverest comeback, but it rolled off my tongue before I could stop it.
“It looked like you needed a laugh,” is how I position it. “And what did you want to talk about?”
Dani pauses just long enough to make me nervous. “Your brother,” she finally says.
My jaw clenches. Earlier, my stress level had dipped considerably thanks to a vision of Dani on the raft, fingers working between her legs, while my hand worked overtime under the duvet.
But it’s back, racing to new highs.
She cannot be into Sawyer. Give me this one thing, Higher Power. You owe me.
I cross both arms over my chest, if only to stop it from exploding. “What about him?”
“Did he say anything to you about me? What I mean is,” she quickly adds, “I picked up on a more-than-business vibe. On the off chance he mentioned something…”
The opportunity to roast Sawyer is tantalizing. Twice divorced. A hopeless workaholic she might see on the weekends, gliding bored and stiff through some high society function. As much fun as the plague.
But I don’t.
And I also dance around the truth.
“I can’t speak for him. We aren’t super tight in that way.”
She searches my face, earnest and unguarded. I feel a little destroyed. Did it cross her mind to ask about me? Does she not feel the sexual tension crackling between us? The purchase of a thousand blazers suddenly feels hopeless.
“Thanks,” she says. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” A shaft of morning sunlight cuts though the kitchen, forcing Dani to shield her eyes. “I liked the stories you told last night. I get the whole sibling drama angle. It’s the same with me and my sister. Minus the vomit.”
We share a little laugh. The tale of Sawyer having to collect the drunk asses of his two younger brothers from the copshop at one in the morning is a classic. On the drive home, I threw up in the back seat of his 3 Series, and the damn thing reeked of stale puke until he sold it.
One of the many reasons why Sawyer tried to cockblock me last night.
But even he managed a grin when I imitated Dad in conniption mode, the bright lights of the kitchen shining on his delinquent sons as he declared JC and me grounded “for-fucking-ever.”
“I was a little shit, to be fair,” I admit.
“Speaking of little shits.” Dani repositions herself on the stool. “I gave Evelyn the rundown from last night. She asked me to hire security. Two guys at the front entrance twenty-four-seven starting today at noon.”
“Uh-oh.” This feels like the beginning of something bad. “Tell me what you need. I can stick around here if that makes your life easier. Me and the team can improvise. And thank you for last night.” I tap my foot against her bare calf. “You were fierce.”
Her cheeks pink ever so slightly. “I appreciate that.”
I would appreciate more than a respectful smile. What is it going to take to break her barrier?
“We’re in this together,” I say, making it clear she can count on me. “Aside from our swimming wager, of course.” I wink. “Think you can beat me to the raft? Because we still have to play that fair and square.”
That does it. Her eyes light up, the spark I was aiming for. “Are we putting money on that?” she shoots back.
“We could bet on a few different outcomes.”
I smile, short of fixing her with admiring eyes. Timeless idiocy, me being King Obvious, but whatever. The Sawyer obstacle toppled has me screaming for the finish line.
And who ruins the moment but the duo I wanted nothing to do with?
Francis and Rita stroll in, assuming an open door means they can forgo the courtesy of knocking.
“Hey, man,” Francis says in that chummy way of film folk who approximate their hiring with Insta-friend status. I already know his reedy voice will get under my skin within minutes. “This is Rita.”
He gestures at the unsmiling lump beside him who radiates all the charm of Charles Manson crossed with a troll. Her butch stance suggests perpetual conflict or an incoming headlock with one of her heavily tattooed arms. Hardcore bee-yotch brims in eyes cold and brown as coffee stains, in case her t-shirt printed with THIS SHIT IS EXTRA didn’t tip you off. The only thing missing is a rifle slung across her shoulders.
“Who do I talk to about getting some oat milk in our cabin?” is the first thing she demands. “I don’t do dairy.”
Dani's eyes snap to mine with an uncertain stare. Did she expect some polite witticism to fly out of that scowling mouth? Welcome to Charm School.
I knew I should have pushed harder for no film crew.