Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
DANI
We made it—against all odds.
The final edition of Divine Debauchery is underway, and what a spectacle. Evelyn transformed Osoyoos into ancient Rome, and no picture can do it justice. Ten-foot-tall Doric columns ring the outdoor theater, and actors clad in gladiator regalia prowl the property carrying thick shields and glittery sharp swords. The crowd is buzzing, high on life and assorted things, nibbling on the platters of Italian delicacies offered by servers in linen tunics and sandals.
The only thing missing is Nero himself.
But I have my own Roman god—debauched in his own, special way and looking mighty fine tonight.
After a solid hour of socializing, Rhys and I are soaking it all in from the stage where Calvin Harris will momentarily light it up. The lake behind us is dark and still under a dome of stars. The late summer air holds just the right amount of heat.
“You look amazing in that toga.” I adjust the crown of olive leaves tucked in his flowing locks.“And you are rocking the eyeliner. I told you it would look fierce.”
He fixes me with his pleased eyes, blazing bright with desire and sexy as hell rimmed in black kohl. Evelyn insisted we wear the same outfits from our infamous photoshoot—we’d kept them, for obvious reasons—and I felt very self-conscious strolling past a poster-sized ad capturing our most scandalous moment in the vineyard.
But I blushed harder during ice wine aperitifs last night when a tipsy Evelyn admitted they all knew what had happened.
“The polite thing was to pretend,” she’d said. “You were so out of sorts.”
Rhys had slid his eyes to mine and gave a hopeless shrug. Unbelievable. He knew they knew. I’d been the lone one out, hyperventilating in Yvette’s bathroom and praying for the earth to swallow me whole.
Not fair.
I could blame them for stretching out my agony.
But in a full circle moment, I, Dani Rose Rialto, have made peace with blame. And with the internet. Because, without it, my wine label designs would not have flown through cyberspace to spark Evelyn’s interest. She never hires me, and I don’t end up here, on a star-soaked night in Osoyoos, wrapped in the easy, masculine strength of Rhys Trenton’s arms.
“I better keep you on a short leash,” he murmurs, nuzzling my neck with soft kisses. “All these Hollywood players have been casting looks.”
The double bill of Calvin and Gia in dusty Osoyoos proved too iconic to miss, hence the star power on display. Half of young Hollywood wanders the grounds, their desperate agents promising me obscene amounts of money, along with their firstborns, in exchange for tickets.
I felt like a powerful wizard holding the cure to cancer.
“Dani! Rhys!” Unrecognizable in a hot-pink tinsel wig, Evelyn waves at us to join her at the champagne bar, where she holds court with a stately redhead dressed in sensible pumps and a knee-length skirt. “Let me introduce you to the princess!”
“A real princess?” I whisper to Rhys as we make our way over.
He scopes out the modestly dressed woman, far less impressed than my awestruck booty. “I think she’s from the Netherlands.”
While we gab with modern-day royalty, I spot Gia and JC huddled under a pop-up tent near the stage. Their conversation looks intense. Are they discussing the setlist? Or how to outdo Calvin? My money is on the latter.
Not that they have to try hard.
Rhys and I dropped in on one of their rehearsals in Vancouver and, holy shit. The noise was astounding. The cinder-block studio could barely contain the explosive energy. JC’s blistering solos acted like a fire starter to Gia’s flame, coaxing her throaty howl into earth-shattering octaves.
Passion seared into every note.
Hotter than lava.
Panty-soaking sexy.
What will happen when they throw down their incendiary heat onto this hedonistic crowd? I can hardly wait!
The stage lights suddenly illuminate, and a murmur of excitement ripples through the crowd. Kinetic humans swarm to the front, flowing, charging up. Ready to rock.
We say our goodbyes to the princess, and Evelyn shouts after us, “Enjoy! And thank you for the music.”
Hand tight over mine, Rhys shoulders his way to the front of the stage. Spotlights beamed up into the sky create dizzying circles as roadies blast dry ice, shrouding the stage in smoky mystery. The energy feels tightly coiled. My skin tingles. Anticipation times infinity.
Silhouetted in smoke, Calvin wanders onto the stage with a casual wave, and the heavily wasted crowd roars their approval. Rhys introduced me to him earlier, and he was the sweetest guy. Unassuming. Tired from the long overnight flight. One of the hottest DJs on the planet, and he was just like you and me, drinking hot tea and shooting the shit with Rhys.
It was funny to see him in fanboy mode. Obvs obsessed.
Settled behind his wall of tech, Calvin throws on headphones, and the first notes crackle through the loudspeakers.
Wine glasses toast the sky with a chorus of Fuck yeahs!
“Good evening, Osoyoos,” Calvin says from somewhere in the smoke cloud. “Thank you for having me.”
Rihanna’s opening lyrics of “This is What You Came For” ring out, and a surge of party bros and damsels crush around Rhys and me. He protects me from the mob, arms cradled around my shoulders like a human cage.
“Stay right here,” he whispers in my ear. “I got you.”
“You’re not going to dance?”
As if. The music has kicked in, and his body sways to the beats.
“Hell yeah,” he says with the biggest smile. “Get ready to shake that fine booty.”
I’ll never be like him—inhabiting the music, becoming it—but whatever.
This buttoned-up woman can shake it just fine.
Calvin's massive hits keep rolling, pounding the crowd with bone-rattling bass and rave-worthy speed. By the time the final notes of “We Found Love” drift into the summer night, the sweat-soaked audience is utterly exhausted. They scatter, seeking bathrooms or complimentary rosé refills.
Rhys excuses himself to hook up with JC before their set, and I encourage him to take his time. When Rhys stumbled into his brother’s arms at the hospital, it felt like Jesus moving into the light. Their deep connection struck me all the way to my toes.
Thick as blood.
A bond he needs to nurture.
Along with his other brother.
I rehydrate and do a lap of the property, checking my phone for an update from Sawyer. Nothing since his last message when he said he’d be here by eight. It’s almost nine-thirty. Per town guidelines, Gia and JC have to wrap by eleven, and there is no way Sawyer will miss their act.
I send a quick Where are you? text and fire off a few celebrity photos to Amelia, who is living vicariously through me tonight. She promptly responds, shouting via text:
AR: Olivia Rodrigo? FAWK!!! If Taylor Swift shows up, I will hate you forever for not inviting me.
DR: Gotta run. Looks like I have to say hi to Lily-Rose Depp.
AR: Did I mention I hate you???
I tuck my phone back into my bra, smiling. Proud. And yeah, a little triumphant.
Sorry, sis. It is finally my time.
Rhys and I stay camped out front and center for the main event. Mild-mannered Calvin let his beats do the talking, staying silent through his one-hour set. But when Gia struts onto the stage with a booming, “Yo, bitches!”—welcome to the new world order.
The crowd goes bonkers.
Gia's all hair flips and snapping fingers. A saucy little minx in fishnets, a leopard-print onesie, and ballet flats, she leans on the mic stand to take a sip of Fireball whiskey she brandishes from a gold fanny pack draped around her tiny waist.
“Are y’all ready to burn this place down?” She holds a hand to one ear and leans toward the crowd, inciting drunken bellows of approval. “Because Nero, that crazy motherfucker, burnt Rome to the ground. And if I follow in anyone’s footsteps, it will be a notorious legend. Capiche?”
More hoots and hollers.
Someone screams, “Fuck ya!”
“Sorry,” Gia says, motioning for more noise, already a superstar with an innate ability to work a crowd. “I can’t hear you. Are we burning this place to the ground?”
Just when I thought Calvin had sapped all the energy from the crowd, a thundering howl erupts that would wake the dead.
Or all the senior citizens of Osoyoos who watched TV and went to bed early.
I glance up at Rhys. He’s shaking his head, primed and ready. “This is going to get crazy.”
How can it not when you have a mad scientist as a musical ringleader?
“That’s the spirit, MOFO’S,” Gia continues, grinning wide. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now, I want y’all to dig deep and give it up for our very special guest star. The man, the myth, the legend. The guy who can make the guitar orgasm…Mr. JC Trenton!!!”
For a split second, there is absolute silence. Sawyer kept the lid tight on JC's appearance, and not a soul here expected to hear his name. But he is a legend, a living one with a legion of fans who never saw him play live. And now, he’s going to burn down the house with Gia?
Not even fingers jammed into both ears deaden the surge of sound, louder than a jet plane taking off. I’d be scared shitless accosted by such torrid reverence, but JC wanders onto the stage, no sign of nerves beneath his beaming smile.
Beside us, two young actresses are having meltdowns, fumbling for their phones.
What the actual fuck? Oh. My. God. This can’t be real.
Gia introduces the rest of the band, and they settle in for last-minute tuning before blasting us in the face with Pop My Cherry’s biggest hit, the fiery sing-along, “Blackest Nights.”
And we’re off.
For most of the set, Rhys’s erection throbs against my butt. He’s had a few drinks. Handsy and kissing me sloppily, just missing my lips. Giving off wild, untamed energy. When Gia announces their final song, he makes his move.
We’re squished like sardines in the packed, blissed-out crowd, but no one notices his hand disappear between the folds of my toga. He slides a finger past my thong, teasing my barbell with sharp little flicks.
“Mmm,” he mumbles. “You drive me crazy.”
The encore kicks off with a familiar refrain. Gia launches into the lyrics about leaving a good job in the city, working for the man. Big wheels keep on turning.
“Proud Mary”? No way!
I scream my approval, and Rhys’s finger starts moving in devastating, precise circles until my clit hardens into a tight bud, blood rushing to my pussy. I melt into him, grinding twerky ass movements onto the solid wall of his desire until I feel his short, clipped breath raging hot in my ear.
“Are you ready to get lit?”
Gia stalks the stage, belting out lyrics like she’s Tina Turner reincarnated. She blasts into the first chorus, and Rhys plunges his finger deep inside me.
“Oh, fuck!” I gasp, my body faint with sensation. Stars in my head.
“That’s the intention,” he mutters, finger-fucking me slow and steady, talking dirty into my ear.
No space between us. Just raw, burning desire.
What happens next is a full-blown musical/erotic climax that will live in my memory forever.
The band is swinging, tightly flawless even as they sound warm and loose. JC hoists his guitar skyward, a roar from the drunken masses to blister them with one last solo.
Someone yells, “Burn the house down!”
Gia catches that, flashes a thumbs-up, and grins. As the band surges toward the peak, she takes a long swig from her water bottle, tosses it over her shoulder, and plants her feet wide in a commanding A-stance. At the same time, Rhys starts working my clit over until I’m gasping for breath, tension building in waves.
And then…
JC charges across the stage and drops to his knees, sliding clean between Gia’s spread legs. His back arches as he tears into the solo, the noise bruising the air, slamming into me like a physical force. Gia leans back, and a strong and mighty stream of water arcs from her mouth. Backlit by the dry ice smoke, the water sparkles and tumbles into JC’s open mouth. Perfectly timed. Impossible.
I watch it happen, but I swear my eyes are playing tricks. Because how???
“Rhys,” I pant. “What the hell?”
And he answers with grunts and dark animal sounds, driving his hot hardness into my ass. Not that I blame him. If I had a dick, it would be pointing due north and then some because JC and Gia are real-time possessed. Sonic soulmates synched on some higher level, conjuring up sexy black magic impossible to rehearse.
The band speeds up the tempo, the deep, punishing bassline thundering faster and faster, drums going manic. Rhys responds by frantically tag-teaming between scrubbing my clit and fingering my seam. Shockwaves of pleasure spiral through me, tension building and building like the music. Nothing has ever felt like this: ruinous and dirty and so right.
I ache for him. Burn for him to slide inside me.
I’m barely aware of JC, playing like he’s not hearing the crowd flip out, utterly lost in a torrent of furious notes, like I’m lost in the waves pushing me higher and higher. And Gia sways in the hot wind, a genie conjured by her musical magic lamp writhing on the stage between her legs.
Her voice pitches louder and louder.
Rolling. Rolling. Rolling.
I feel the muscles of Rhys’s chest tighten against my back. If he thrusts any harder into my backside, I’m going to blow apart. “You can only want me,” he growls into my ear.
Exquisite pain funnels lower between my legs until I’m all feeling and floaty, with no sense of time, space, or reality. The musical crescendo hits at the same time the obliterating spike of release rips through me. Black dots smother my vision, me bucking hard against his hand in the desperate desire to be one with him, the climax so intense, a shattered groan leaves my lungs in one delirious exhalation.
Rhys slips his thumb into the dark wetness of my mouth, muzzling my cries. His other arm clutches my waist as he drives into my backside with deep, rhythmic spasms, biting my neck, the feral sound of his release lost in the ear-splitting roar of the crowd and the spray of fireworks lighting up the sky.
Everyone wants a piece of future history. The crowd is ten deep backstage, jammed shoulder to shoulder under the pop-up tents. There were so many fireworks for the finale, it still smells like a bomb went off.
Gia spots me and drags me in a fierce, sweaty hug. “Whadda ya think, sistah?”
“Oh my god, Gia. That was like…” I trail off, and she fills in the blank for me.
“Like we were having sex?”
I stifle a laugh. Both them and us. “Kinda.”
She runs a hand over her mop of raven hair. Eyeliner melting down her face, lips stained scarlet, she’s the hottest thing in a crowd of a thousand hotties.
“Sweet. I wanted that effect. No time for basic in this world. And you.” She stands back to admire my ensemble. “On fleek, snatched, and lit, baby!”
She grooves to some silent beat in her head, wiry, jungle cat energy humming off her as she scans the crowd. I follow suit, triangulating on unfamiliar faces when my gaze collides with Sawyer’s. He’s on the sidelines, slightly removed from the craziness. Dress shirt buttoned to the neck. He holds up his highball glass in greeting.
Gia waves back and shouts into my ear, “What do you think of Mr. FBI?”
“I think you’re in good hands,” I yell back.
Gia nods, not quite agreeing. Skeptical, like any creative wildcard would be with a suit. It looks like she has more to say, but a fan storms between us, fawning and gushing praise. I take that as my cue and cut across the crowd to join Sawyer.
“You made it.” I elbow his arm, and he loosens up by one percent. “What a performance, huh?”
“Classic JC,” he says. “Bringing down the house.”
“Your instinct to pair them was spot on. You can’t buy that level of chemistry.”
His eyes slide off mine as he drains his drink. “Rhys might have convinced you otherwise, but I know what I’m doing.”
A flash of low-level shame passes through me. Rhys didn’t exactly sell Sawyer when I asked if he had designs on me. And I judged Sawyer—lumped him in with the likes of Brett. If that's not deserving of penance...
Clunkily, I try to change the subject. “You should join us on Corfu for New Year’s if you have the time.”
He considers this and offers a slight shrug. “That might work.”
A silence falls. Ninety-nine percent of me wants to find Rhys, but I hang back, observing Sawyer as he catalogs the famous crowd. Sizing up future clients? Probably. But this time I don’t lay down judgment. After the shock of Amelia’s secrets wore off, I sat with the idea of how even the people closest to us harbor thoughts and feelings we can never understand.
In Sawyer’s case, what is the personal cost of being on the money all the time? Of always being the strong one?
Maybe he doesn’t know any better.
And, maybe, work is all he has.
Last night, when Rhys cooked a big fat Greek feast for me, JC, and Gia in the villa, he mentioned a woman named Jasmine King, the feisty daughter of a Hong Kong billionaire and Sawyer’s long-term girlfriend. They were destined for the altar, and something blew up. Exactly what, nobody knows. Jasmine disappeared. Sawyer refused to discuss it. JC said he’s never been the same.
I think of that now. Deep down, a vague ribbon of hope runs through me. I touch his arm and smile. “Rhys would love it if you came. JC and Gia will be there too.”
Sawyer glances at my outfit and then lifts his eyes to mine. Written all over my face is the message: we’re in this together. Let’s make the best of it.
His brow cocks. “Party like it’s 1999?”
“Toga optional.”
Finally, a laugh. “Bedsheets were never my thing. Not a good look on a paper-pusher.”
I gauge his expression and find it as light as his tone.
“Dani!”
At the far end of the tents, Rhys wildly motions for me to join him.His golden, bright beauty blazes in a brilliant smile. So different from thirty minutes ago, us trembling under the night sky, my body twitching from aftershocks. Rhys was very hot, his skin on fire against mine. What we witnessed was once in a lifetime. A fusion that knocked the breath out of me. Never mind that Rhys came all over my toga for a second time.
“That was incredible!” I’d gushed, meaning in every way possible.
And Rhys, still breathing hard, had said, “I told you he was the Trenton with real talent.”
“Number one, I beg to differ. But,” I paused to catch my breath and center my still-melting core, “those two. Together.”
His eyes swept over me, a quick, loaded glance. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
On a quiet and still August night in Vancouver, Rhys and I watched the sunset at Kitsilano Beach while he shared what went down with JC years before. Online news stories tell the tale of JC's musical career and subsequent breakdown, but my heart crumbled with Rhys's first-hand account during the hard first weeks of darkness. JC, broken and crying in the palazzo, his mental demons closing in.
A wound still festers, that I can tell. Different from the fallout with his father.
“It will be okay,” I assured him. “We’ll both watch out for him.”
Rhys hugged me tight, squeezing all the remaining air out of my lungs. “Thank you,” he had whispered. “For being my person.”
Sawyer elbows me, and I snap out of the memory haze.
He chin-nods at the still-waving Rhys. “Go make my little brother happy.” And then, with softness in his eyes, “He deserves it.”
I drop a quick kiss on his stubbled cheek that smells like musk and expensive leather. “Thank you for everything. Don’t leave without saying goodbye.”
And I wind my way through the spirited crowd to that smile of pure joy, shining on me, the luckiest woman in the world.