Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
RHYS
Have you ever prayed to God asking for a sign that you’ve done the right thing? I did that once. Buried deep in row forty-three on a British Airways flight barreling to London, my fifteen-year-old heart had no clue what the fuck I’d just done. Flipped the bird to my family, escaping with a knapsack and a prayer that everything would work out.
I landed in drizzle and misery.
Struggled mightily those first few months on the road. Bounced from shitty hostels to shabby couches to filthy floors. Sucked it up and scrounged for grim, under-the-table jobs with meager pay to stay afloat. I patched together a small network of stragglers like me, who hung around until my money ran out.
I tried to make real friends.
A hard task for an introvert.
No surprise that my phone became my best friend.
Instagram was emerging back then, and it felt less lame than Facebook. The only subject I liked in high school was history, so I decided that would be my schtick. I’d share photos of epic battle locations and famous monuments and remind my generation that their precious snowflake lives owe a debt to those who came before them.
That’s how it all started.
By the time videos became all the rage, I had a decent following, and my numbers exploded once my face became the primary focus. I never slowed my roll, and I became this thing—an influencer. JC, the wise soul he is, was all over me to capitalize on my pretty boy looks.
Tap the market, little buddy.
Sawyer got me set up. He knew what he was doing, I’ll give him that much. We lasted an entire three months with him as my rep before it got ugly, and he swapped out for Bettina.
Suddenly, I had a full-blown career.
More money than I knew what to do with.
A rabid fanbase.
Dream life, right?
Not really.
Behind the shiny curtain lurks the darker reality I’ve never shared. @Thetrentontroublemaker was born out of necessity, not for some sad reach for fame. I was lonely. And I still am. Crazies populate my world, a sure sign that whatever mystique I’ve created no longer serves a purpose.
Myla camped out on her suitcase, refusing to leave, highlights everything that is wrong with my life.
“Do you want me to physically throw you out?” I pace back and forth, trying to stay calm. “Because that can happen.”
Myla stares me down, absolutely unfazed. “Maybe we need a longer break,” she suggests.
I rub my temples and remind myself to breathe, not to hyperventilate. Has she lost it so thoroughly? Does she think we will shack up and craft matching Burning Man outfits? Bake apple pies? Aside from diabolical horniness, why did I crumble for her, of all women?
“Don’t you understand how wrong this is?” I plead. “I made a mistake bringing you home. I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression, but I like someone else.”
She spends some time trying to work out whether I’m being serious. Then, with a sneer of contempt, she reveals who she really is. “That dark-haired pica?”
One of the benefits of living in Europe is exposure to languages. I can swear in nine different tongues and know enough Czech to understand that she just called Dani a cunt. I’m done playing nice.
“If you’re not out of here in ten minutes, I’m calling the police. Seriously. Get the fuck out.”
Is it overkill to point at the door? No. This psycho dimwit needs all the bloody encouragement.
Myla blinks. There's a long pause. In the pin-drop silence, her asthmatic breathing sounds disturbingly like Darth Vader. But I feel the first glimmer of hope. That there is a sliver of normalcy buried deep in her gray matter.
Or a healthy fear of authority.
“And where do I go?” she asks.
“Home,” I stress. “Hop a flight in the opposite direction. Happy to pay for your return if that helps.” If I could charter a jet to depart from the vineyard, I would. It is that dire. “I assume you flew into Kelowna?”
She runs a hand through her hair, and sparkly pieces of silver cascade to the floor. I bet she left a trail across the Atlantic.
“I don’t need your money,” she says, like I’ve offended her.
“Then what is it you want?” I ask this openly and honestly, to crack the code of her behavior, because every Crazy was, at one point, normal.
Myla swallows hard, her throat working against the tightness that seems to have calcified her. Her eyes appear glassy, blinking rapidly, but no tears fall. It's like she's trying to hold on to something, anything, to stop herself from unraveling.
I know that feeling all too well.
“Maybe I like you,” she says, her voice wavering before she ducks my eyes.
Even if I knew the answer already, it’s still surprising to hear those words after the drama and pouts and stick limbs crossed tight. I look into her drawn face, and behind it, the damaged expression scribbled like the mess she is. It makes what I have to say that much harder.
“Fair,” I say, buffering what comes next so as not to hurt her feelings. “But if I don’t like you in the same way, nothing can ever come of this. Relationships aren’t one-way streets.”
She slides her shoulder blades together and sits up straighter. I tried not to sound like her teacher explaining a bad grade, reducing her emotions to superficial fluff. My idea to acknowledge them without incorporating any specific language or framing us in any manner of relationship came out of nowhere.
I hope I presented it in the best light possible.
Because plan B is the police.
Her eyes carry sadness as they skirt the villa like she’s trying to place the memories of us here—of what could have happened. My lungs start to burn until I realize I’m holding my breath.
And her breathing has changed as well, shallower now, almost hesitant before she asks, “Can I use your bathroom before I go?”
I’m stunned into a brief silence. Myla is out of my hair? It seems too good to be true.
“For what?” I ask because, well, with her, you never know. Maybe she’ll nest in the shower.
She rolls her eyes. “What do you think?”
Unless she plans to steal my toothbrush, what do I have to lose? And with momentum on my side, no time like the present to usher her out as fast as humanly possible.
“Go ahead. I’ll call you a taxi.”
She stands up slowly, wobbling on her ridiculous boots. I feel her expectation that I should say more, but what else is there to say?
The faintest quiver in her lips gives away the battle raging beneath her calmness before she says, “Such a gentleman,” with all the disgust she can muster.
She stalks off to the bedroom, and I rest a hand over my eyes in full-blown exhaustion.
Holy smokes.
I’m not made for this emotional turmoil.
I bolt to the kitchen island to check my messages on my phone. I’d snagged it out of the bedroom after Sawyer and Dani took off, charged it, and fired off two texts to Dani.
No reply.
I sag with the weight of my sinking heart. What did I expect? When a guy claims not to have a girlfriend, and his one sexual misstep materializes dressed like a Vegas showgirl…
It takes everything in me not to fire off a third text. Dani lives here. Eventually, she’ll return. But what garbage and family dirt is Sawyer feeding her at breakfast? Nothing that will put me in a good light, that’s for sure. I put in a call for another taxi, wondering if they might start blocking my number.
Pizzas. Condoms. European starlets.
What other items will I have them transport?
Thankfully, word hasn’t gotten out yet about the drama, and Dispatch cheerily informs me my ride will arrive shortly.
Thank Christ.
I hear the toilet flush, and Myla reappears with one of my towels bunched in her hand. “You mind if I borrow this?” she asks and quickly clarifies her request. “I might need to kill some time at the lake before my flight.”
“In Kelowna,” I repeat, to be clear.
“Yes, Rhys,” she says condescendingly. “In Kelowna.”
If I need to cover the cost of a hundred fluffy towels, fine. Take as many as you want.
“Sure. Okay.” I glance at my phone again. Nothing. “The taxi will pick you up at the tasting room,” I add distractedly.
Myla unzips her suitcase and angles herself, backside facing me, as she tries to jam the towel inside. But she has to force it in, her bag likely jammed full with a hundred bikinis and vape sticksin every flavor imaginable.
Task complete, she touches up her hair. Her eyes are brittle when they find mine.
“Dmitri offered me money to sleep with you. He was under the impression you like men. I only proved him wrong, so don’t think you’re all that.”
I bite my tongue. Do not take the bait. I’ve heard those rumors more than once. Maybe Dmitri has his doubts, but no need for him to fly Myla here to substantiate the rumors a second time.
If she needs to save face, so be it.
“Tell him I say hi.”
Myla purses her lips. Or tries to shape those injected skin flaps into something other than a bittersweet smile. There’s a sameness to the prowling Euro elite that makes me think they all went to the same school and drank the same Kool-Aid. Myla has cheekbones like sharp knives. Hard eyes. Implants that could survive nuclear war. Running so hot and cold, how did I ever miss it?
“Have fun with your new girlfriend. And fuck you,” she adds for good measure. “You’re so overhyped.”
She trundles out, and the settling of my rapid-fire heartbeat feels like an acre of space suddenly opened up. I fight the urge to slam the door and engage every lock, standing guard on the porch until the taxi arrives and Myla slips inside.