Page 45 of My Grape Crush
The group exchanges wary glances of theCan she be trusted?variety. Being suspicious of adults never goes out of vogue if you’re a teenager.
Ponytail takes a hit of her vape. “Will he be here tomorrow?”
“Not sure. It’s all very hush-hush. And,” I add, taking a stab at their ages while knowing the enforcement of this is loose, “anyone under nineteen has to be accompanied by an adult at all times. You can't come up there otherwise.”
As they digest that news in pouty silence, the heavily tinted driver’s window of the Beemer rolls down. I can hear the collective drawing of breaths, followed by slightly disappointed ones. But only slightly. While Sawyer is not Rhys, he is easy on the eyes.
“Hey, babe,” he says to me. “We need to go. Sorry, ladies.” He flashes a confident smile at the group. “My girlfriend and I need to Netflix and chill. It’s been a long day.”
Fake dating to get out of a pickle? Brilliant. But will they buy it? They huddle together and debate in low-level murmuring. I glance at Sawyer, who signals with his eyes that he’s ready to take them on if necessary.
Jesus. Is this how tonight ends? In a rumble?
The council of teeny boppers separates, and Ponytail addresses them in the determined tone of a bounty hunter. “Let’s get some food and call every hotel. This place is tiny. We’ll find him. Or come back tomorrow.”
“The owner lives up on the property, and she’s old-school tough,” I warn her. “One thousand percent she will not tolerate a bunch of minors hanging around. Stay away, unless you want the cops involved.”
Ponytail snorts a laugh. The threat of police? Bring it on, sister. But she rallies her crew for departure, and they disperse, blue smoke blowing out of the tailpipes as they convoy away.
After they clear out, Francis brushes off dust from his garden-variety film-set wardrobe of Dickie’s and Doc Martens. “Nice work and all,” he says, “but if we need to deal with that for the next few weeks, forget any clean sound takes. You should look into crowd control.”
I sigh, watching the dust plumes from the mob’s departure settle in the twilight. “I’ll talk to Evelyn tomorrow. We may need to hire security.”
In the car, Sawyer asks Rhys, “Is it always like this?”
Very slowly, the rear window slides lower. Rhys has unfolded himself from the floor, his face pale beneath the tan. “Only a few times. But once is enough never to forget.”
“Oh shit, man!” Francis exclaims. “You were in there the whole time? You play the dangerous game.”
Rhys and I lock eyes, his flecked with doubt. Damage control never came up with Bettina, and she left no stone unturned. Or so I thought.
But here we are, not even a week in, and a fangirl squad is already on alert, ready to pounce. Small numbers now, but if even a fraction of his thirty million fans descend on Osoyoos, we're screwed.
Chapter Fourteen
RHYS
Here’sthe problem with being famous: fans approach me with what they believe is a genuine level playing field. The reality? Hardwired expectations hum dangerously beneath their smiles and sincerity. Interaction with enough Crazies has proved their uncanny ability to memorize every minuscule detail of my life, and they hold on to them like religion.
They speculate and fictionalize.
Create this entire narrative in their minds.
Inevitably, I disappoint them when they realize hologram Rhys is just another guy. Not magic. Not mythical. And not available at their disposal twenty-four-seven.And they act bruised and disappointed if I wave them off, when all I want is to buy some fucking bananas in peace.
Witnessing a revamped opinion of me take over their faces is a weird hit. Like I somehow let them down.
I stare up at the bedroom ceiling with a grave realization settling over me. This Nero Vino gig felt safe. Five weeks in small-town Canada?Sold. The most aggro Canadians get is walking into a parking meter and sayingsorry.
Or so I thought.
Now I’m stuck at a winery in a half-a-horse town, population five thousand and change, with Crazies hitting me from all sides.Anxiety crests, and I shut my eyes, breathing through the tension locking my shoulders and jaw. Myla texted me last night, and I’ll spare you the details other than stating the obvious: she is certifiable. I stupidly replied to her X-rated video with all the outrage I could muster and prayed her radio silence meant the end of it.
Wishful thinking.
My screen lit up like a firework display with a cascade of heart emojis and smiley faces.
MB: Sooorrrryyy! Just miiis you! When are u back?
