Page 11 of My Grape Crush
“Dani! What’s going on?”
I freeze, scanning my immediate perimeter to locate the source of the shrill, disembodied voice that settles on my skin like napalm.
There. Lying face down in the grass. Dani’s phone.
Another panickedHello???broadcasts into the silence, prompting me to answer.
I fumble the phone to my ear and center with a calming, deep breath. “Hi. This is Dani’s phone.”
“Who’s this?” the female voice asks, tinged with surprise.
“Uhm, Rhys?”
There’s a long silence before she replies, “Oh. Hi. Is Dani okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I snap into an easy-breezy mode, as if she and I are chilling with beers on the deck. “Do you want to talk to her?”
“Ah … she can call me later.”
“Okay. I’ll pass on the message. Who’s this?”
Another pause, weightier, like she’s debating what to say.“Her BFF,” she finally says. “And tell her there’s no rush. Bye.”
The line goes dead in my ear. That woman was in a hurry to end the call, whoever she was. But her voice—why did it sound familiar? Some people remember faces; I’m an audio guy. Laughs, voices, songs. Sounds trigger immediate and visceral reactions, and her voice provoked a flare of goose bumps and a quickening of my heart.
My whole body is humming now. With Dani’s phone unlocked in my hand, I’m tempted to cross-check the caller’s name. Maybe scroll through some of her photos while I’m at it. Watch for the one of her wrapped in the arms of some slick, suited-up guy, and quietly bow out of the fruitless pursuit of my new boss. On my walk over here, I did the math. A result that didn't end up in my favor because, well, reality. Dani and I are as likely as Mother Teresa hooking up with The Joker.
But the photo on her home screen shows Dani wearing a beautiful smile and a Joey Ramone t-shirt.
That has me thinking twice.
As do her pearls.
Thank god I control my urge to poke around her business because Dani suddenly reappears in denim cut-offs and the oversized Joey shirt. Her eyes immediately travel onto the phone clutched in my hand.
My cheeks blaze. Guilt by association. Because I almost looked.
“Your friend said to call her back,” I explain, thrusting the phone at her like a hot potato. “I convinced her I wasn’t an ax murderer.”
Dani tucks her phone into the back pocket of her shorts with a rueful half-smile. “I’m the one who almost murderedyou.”
I give a little shrug and rise to my feet, brushing dead grass off my shorts. Cool as I can be with sexy red ooze leaking from my nose.
“Next time,” I say. “Hit me with your best shot.”
Dani appraises me, letting her gaze run over my face. I’ll take her soft eyes any day over Joey Ramone’s stone-faced mug silently judging me from the front of her t-shirt.
How did you manage to create this clusterfuck in under an hour?
“Come in.” Dani waves me inside. “I have a first aid kit.”
I don’t have to be asked twice to follow those endless tanned legs. To avoid leaving a trail of red splatters on her floor, I use my shirt as a temporary bandage. Dani rambles about the door and how the repair guy must have fixed it, but I’m only half-listening.
Compared to my extravagant villa, her crib is the equivalent of the other side of the tracks. A shack with no flair. Walls slapped with institutional beige paint. It’s like a thrift store came by and dumped all the unclaimed furniture. My eyes sweep the room hunting for telltale signs of a man. Dirty white socks heaped in a corner. An Xbox. A grungy recliner that matches nothing else.
But there’s none of that.
Not much of anything, to be honest.
