Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
RHYS
I am officially in hell with none of the perks, stranded alongside a near-catatonic Nicole, who will kick Francis in the ass sooner than I will if he continues at his glacial rate. These union film guys can’t function beyond airtight.
“I need to reset,” Francis mutters, to no one’s surprise.“Lost focus at the end. How was the sound take, Reets?”
“I can still hear the refrigerator,” she claims, thrusting her chin upward in diva disgust.
A shadow of misery touches Nicole’s features. Today is our Q and A about her winemaking process. She’s been good with delivery and keeping things light between takes, but the lack of takes has taken a toll. Francis has postured around all morning acting like a true titan of tech, but I could have captured a week’s worth of content in the time it took him to get set up.
And Rita? Don’t even get me started.
“Why don’t we break for lunch early?” I suggest. “Meet back here in an hour?”
“It’s only eleven,” Rita blithely states, as if I can’t read the giant clock above Nicole’s workstation. As if eating before noon carries the threat of her turning into a pumpkin.
“Right. So, we’ll see you at twelve.”
Nicole and I wait out the thick silence as Lucifer and his wife pack up. Once our dynamic duo has left the building, Nicole blows out an exasperated sigh that could send a sailboat to Fiji.
“Pardon me, but can I face a firing squad instead?”
“Having fun yet?” I joke back.
“I thought the law was painful. Those two are needles jammed into my skull.” She pushes out of her chair, heaving a sigh. “I have an extra egg salad sandwich. And we can sneak in some wine. Numb ourselves for the second act.”
“Sold,” I say.
Nicole fetches the grub from her cubbyhole kitchen and returns with a bottle of The Emperor and two glasses. It's that kind of day when the pour reaches the rim.
“Cheers,” she says, careful not to spill as we clink glasses. “Because you…” Her eyes soften, crinkling at the corners. “You’re okay.”
“Is that a compliment?” I ask, just to be sure. I knew from our inaugural first meeting, she considered me ick for whatever reason. But I felt her thaw on Tuesday. Have we reached full melt?
Nicole swirls her glass, releasing a cascade of fragrant scents that tickle my nose—ripe berries, a hint of spice.She inhales deeply and looks drunk with love. “What I expected was attitude and aviators. Not a hair out of place. Dumb as a stick.”
“Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”
When Nicole smiles, her whole face changes, and she leans back, happy to indulge my request that she’s clearly put some thought into. “A pinhead princeling who wouldn’t know the difference between rosé or rotgut if it slapped him in the face.”
I absorb the hit. Take it like a man, Rhys. “Appreciate the honesty. Although, ouch.”
Her grin widens. “Be happy someone around here appreciates you.”
Okay. Rita and I might have gotten off on the wrong foot. In my defense, I was trying to do both of them a solid, offering pointers—angles I previously sussed out, where the light worked best, and dead spots for sound. As soon as I dipped a toe into her craft, Rita turned on me, fully and completely.
“Dude,” she’d bristled in a classic fuck you tone, “just because you’re the ‘star,’” air quotes around that, “doesn’t mean you’re the boss of us.”
Both of Nicole’s eyebrows had shot skyward.
Me? I backed off.
Only a fool wages war with this new breed of righteous warrior. And Rita is a specific brand of hater. The bitter, jealous ones who diss me as a talentless overnight sensation, and I’m like, you idiots, I’ve been at this for sixteen years. I early-adopted Instagram when you were bawling in diapers. Sure, I fumbled around at the beginning, like everyone. Niche and content and metrics? Those meant nothing when I started. Yes, I rode the wave to the top through timing and sheer luck. Yes, I make it look easy, swinging in my hammock every night, rambling on about life. Post the video and, presto, ten new companies beg me to flog their products for ridiculous sums.
Any chimpanzee, right?
Not that I need her undying devotion to feel better about myself, but seriously.
If it's so fucking easy, you do it.
As Nicole and I munch sandwiches and swill wine, we replay the “best of” Rita lines. Sound-bites that I grudgingly admit were hilarious, if they weren’t so damn pompous.
“What did she say to you in your villa this morning?” Nicole asks.
“That I was no better than a Russian oligarch who floated around on a yacht worth more than Africa’s GDP while feasting on the last lobsters dragged off the ocean floor.”
Nicole laughs so hard, wine squirts out of her nose. She clears her throat, banging a fist against her chest to halt the laughing coughs. “I cannot believe those words left her mouth.”
I side-eye her. “Is it me or you who tells Evelyn she should be ashamed foraggrandizing a Roman emperor who was the showpiece for degeneracy?”
Nicole shakes her head, at a loss. “Can’t you fire her?”
“I hope so. Dani’s looking into it.” Nothing would please me more than to have Rita stare poverty in the face. I take another sip of wine, addicted to the velvety texture that coats my tongue, flavors of dark cherry and cacao unfolding with a shimmer of tobacco. No wonder this inspired Dani to create her incredible labels.
“Maybe we should offer her some wine,” Nicole suggests. “Calm her the hell down.”
“She probably drinks Yellow Tail,” I say, damning Rita forever. “Or wine coolers.”
Nicole mulls me over with a warm, wistful smile. “Where were you when I was straight and twenty years younger?”
At six p.m., I am done. Depleted. In need of a beer, or ten, and some quiet time in my hammock. If the clock-puncher life means dealing with the human equivalents of sixty-grit sandpaper, maybe I’ll stick to influencing after all.
The lone bright spot of the day was Dani. She dropped by after lunch to share two pieces of news. One, we were stuck with Rita. It turns out she’s the daughter of Bettina’s sister and needs this gig. No real surprise that Rita has burned a few bridges in the biz. Given that, you’d think she might try and sand down her caustic personality.
The scarier notion? Maybe what we witnessed was her trying.
Newsflash number two hit me like a curveball. With Shania out and Sawyer charging off to scoop Gia, was I cool looping in Dani with Calvin’s people? I said, “No problem” when I should have said, “Stop the goddamned presses.” Calvin was one thing, but Sawyer unleashed with JC’s wellbeing on the line? A big and bad idea. But it wasn’t the time and place to bring that up, so I asked if Dani was around later to talk details. She had a meeting with Evelyn but floated tomorrow instead. I mentioned another swim at the lake, and Nicole’s head snapped around so fast, that I half-expected it to fly off.
She caught that another.
And she displayed remarkable restraint waiting until Dani left before she sidled up to me with a smirk bigger than the moon. “Well, well, well,” she said. “Anything you’d like to share?”
I kept my mouth shut. The truth is, there is nothing to share unless I can make shit happen. For sure Nicole could offer up womanly advice, but only one person on the planet can guide me through this.
The guy who knows me better than I know myself.
Back in the safety of my villa, I grab a beer, crack it open, and sink into the hammock before hitting FaceTime. JC’s easy smile fills the screen, warm and comforting, as always.
“Hey, little buddy,” he says. “How’s life in wine world?”
“You know—drunken mayhem and chaos. The usual.”
JC chuckles. “Still flying the Troublemaker flag for the rest of us. Atta boy.”
He flops onto the couch in his Hollywood rental, socked feet up on the armrest. Since January, he’s been living the LA dream—booked solid as a hotshot session musician and scoring films. It’s been nearly a year since I last saw him, but whenever we talk, our trashy teenage rebellion inevitably pops up.
“I got into trouble because of you,” I remind him. “But you had the skills to talk your way out of anything.”
My brother’s silver tongue wooed women, law enforcement, and, most importantly, our father. Effortless charm is JC’s hallmark. At thirty-three, he's still boyishly handsome. Athletic and lean. His gunmetal-blue eyes permanently sparkle with mischief, and he's a super kind dude for someone legit famous. Even his name is the coolest thing ever—Jameson Chevalier. He never gelled with it—considered it froufrou—and rebranded himself as JC on his thirteenth birthday.
Determined resolve is yet another thing my brother owns in spades.
“Whoops,” he says, shifting on the couch, his attention momentarily snagged. “Look what I found.”
Between two fingers dangles a very expensive-looking bra, JC grinning like the cat who ate the canary.
“Are you still dating Kerry?” I ask, latching on to the name I last recall.
He shrugs and sets the bra down. “In her mind we are. But you know how it goes at the House of JC.”I sure do. JC slips in and out of relationships like I do pairs of shorts. “And when are you going to take the plunge?” he asks. “All those chicks dive-bombing you and not a single one worthy of your heart? Your meat can only take so much personal abuse.”
“Actually…” I take a deep pull of my frosty lager then clear out the thickness in my throat. “I met someone.”
This news shocks him into a sitting position. “Is the sex any good?”
“Uhm …. we haven’t made it that far.”
“Does she live in Greece?”
“No. She works for a winery.”
He peers at me straight on. “Winery, as in Nero Vino?”
“Yup.”
“Wait.” He tilts his head in the manner of someone calculating. “Today is Thursday and you got there ... Saturday?”
“That’s why we haven’t made it that far.”
He breaks into howling laughter. “Jesus, Rhys. Does she know you like her? Or are you still hiding out in the dark corners silently pining?”
I feel my cheeks go hot. JC tried hard to wrench me out of my shy shell. But after one too many parties where I hovered in the corner, too scared to talk to any woman, he stopped dragging me out.
“She’s the head of marketing,” I say. “My boss, effectively.”
His eyes light up as he bites back a smirk. “Are you still mesmerized by women in authority?”
As expected, JC roughs me up whenever he can. Although I admit there is something alluring about powerful females in a suit. “How about instead of taking the piss out of me, you give me some advice?”
He leans back to get comfy, running a hand through hair that a music reporter (female, of course) once described as the color of melted dark chocolate. For reals. “Lay it on me, buddy. The doctor is in.”
I can count the number of times JC has paid full attention to any of my stories on one hand. This time, he is dialed in. Laser-focused. Not a single interruption. When I wrap up my summary of what’s transpired, his mouth hangs near his knees.
“Holy shit, bro,” he says, stunned, and a little in awe. “I mean, hot stuff, but not very professional taking you down during a photo shoot.”
“You had to be there.” Defensiveness creeps in because the weird, private bubble moment defied explanation.
“Not that I need to point out the obvious, but action speaks louder than words. No woman grinds you into oblivion just because. You’re sure she’s single?”
I nod. That much, I’m sure of.
“And nothing since the almost-kiss on the raft.”
I shake my head.
JC thinks about that, arranging himself cross-legged on the couch. Getting settled to offer up the advice I asked for. “It sounds like she needs the right fire lit under her. No woman wants a limp-dick lying there letting her do all the work. You need to be the aggressor.”
I pick at the beer label, knowing he’s right. I need to bust a move, but the thought leaves me cold. “You know that’s not my style.”
“Christ, buddy,” JC groans. “You’re too goddamned pretty to be single. Step up to the plate and swing. It’s like that guy complaining he never wins the lottery but refuses to buy a ticket.”
“Yeah, but—” The sound of another call interrupts my protest. JC scans the details on his screen. “You need to take that?”
“It’s Sawyer.” He sends our big brother to voicemail. “I’ll catch up with him after.”
Huh. I bet I know why Sawyer is calling. Do I say something or stand down? Under ordinary circumstances, I would spill the beans. But now Dani and Nero Vino are involved, and the tangled knot of family business, brotherhood, and my own motivations are too extreme for me to untangle.
And when it comes to JC, he’ll do what he wants. Every single time.
But can I claim I knew nothing if I have to live through the damage and debris of a decimated JC for a second time?
“Listen, bro,” he says. “Still early days, but I’ve never seen you this invested. It sounds like Dani might be the one you can finally let down your walls for. Walk me through your plan, and I’ll help you tweak it. Or if you don’t have a clue, let me shed some light on how you seduce a woman.”
I feel a wave of relief, and that’s the magic of JC.
Not only does he understand me, he wants the best for me.
And will do whatever it takes.