Page 25 of My Grape Crush
Our mutual gazes drift to the enthusiastic energy ball known as Evelyn marching toward us with frightening efficiency. Straight nitro.
Dani and I slide out of the truck to greet her, but I think I know what’s coming based on how Evelyn sizes Dani up.
“Luca and I hashed it out,” she says, confirming my speculation. “If Rhys approves and you’re okay with it, let’s proceed with the two of you.”
“I’m down,” I say without hesitation. “We talked about that possibility on the drive.”
Dani shoots me a nervous look. Has she U-turned on the idea?
Evelyn quickly adds, “And whatever collective fees the model would’ve earned, consider them tripled.”
Worldwide residuals for a print campaign can easily top ten grand. Triple that and her day rate? From Dani’s expression, I can tell she’s doing the math.
“If you’ll be my Claudia, I promise not to murder you,” I joke, even though the whole Nero-killed-his-wife thing might not be the best vibe right now. Dani looks spooked.
A dry wind whips around us as Evelyn links her arms with ours, roping us together to march across the trimmed lawn to set.
“I think this is the cat’s meow,” she says. “Don’t you?”
Her wink is unmissable, meant only for me. This particular scheme qualifies as a win in my books, but maybe, just maybe, I’m a tiny bit nervous.
“Holy shit,” Dani mutters, eyes ballooning at the display.
I know what to expect with a Luca shoot.
Dani, not so much.
Arranged in perfect rows the length of the Olympic-sized pool, a small army of wardrobe racks sprawls across the stone patio. Display tables groan under the weight of enough sandals and golden accessories to outfit the entire city ofRome. Vigo, Luca’s lover, assistant, and glam squad of one, has commandeered the last of the space. Beneath a large pop-up tent, his hair and make-up emporium is open and ready for business.
“And we’ll end up using, like, three things,” I tell Dani. “It’s crazy.”
Evelyn excuses herself to round up Yvette, and part one of the Spanish Armada strides over barefoot. Dressed in skin-tight leather pants and nothing else, Luca is skinny as a coat hanger and channeling Jesus with long, loose hair.
“Ah, my Reese’s Pieces!” he says in that famous bellowing baritone that switches from friendly to nasty in a snap if you dare balk at any of his batshit ideas. “Cómo estás, amigo?”
We man-hug, and I introduce him to Dani, whom he squints at, his dark eyes calculating something.
“Vigo!” he barks over his shoulder. “Vete aqui!”
Vigo, bald and bearded, hustles over. He’s a small bulldog of a man, with an apron neatly tied and covering his usual shoot day ensemble: gold sparkle hotpants.
Also shoeless.
“Hola, Rhys,” he lisps, batting his fake eyelashes. “And you,” he clucks at Dani. “Bonita! But you are wearing far too much.”
Amongst these creative freakshows, Dani sticks out like a sore thumb in her office pumps and shift dress. Hot as hell, but the more Vigo fusses around her, the less confident she looks.
Luca knits his shaggy brows together. “Will anything fit her?”
“No hay problema!” Vigo exclaims. “Everything stretches. Come, come.” He tugs a wide-eyed Dani toward the collection of fabric scraps. “Vigo te hace hermosa.”
When they are safely out of earshot shot, Luca asks, “You think she can handle this?”
“I’ll help her out. And after a couple of glasses of wine, you know how it goes.”
A Luca shoot without wine is like a company without a CEO—questionable direction. He creates his best work half-plastered. It always helps if the models are too.
He squares a makeshift frame around my face using his fingers. “I think the light and dark contrast between you will be fantastico!”
