Page 53 of My Grape Crush
The guy who knows me better than I know myself.
Back in the safety of my villa, I grab a beer, crack it open, and sink into the hammock before hitting FaceTime. JC’s easy smile fills the screen, warm and comforting, as always.
“Hey, little buddy,” he says. “How’s life in wine world?”
“You know—drunken mayhem and chaos. The usual.”
JC chuckles. “Still flying the Troublemaker flag for the rest of us. Atta boy.”
He flops onto the couch in his Hollywood rental, socked feet up on the armrest. Since January, he’s been living the LA dream—booked solid as a hotshot session musician and scoring films. It’s been nearly a year since I last saw him, but whenever we talk, our trashy teenage rebellion inevitably pops up.
“I got into trouble because of you,” I remind him. “But you had the skills to talk your way out of anything.”
My brother’s silver tongue wooed women, law enforcement, and, most importantly, our father. Effortless charm is JC’s hallmark. At thirty-three, he's still boyishly handsome. Athletic and lean. His gunmetal-blue eyes permanently sparkle with mischief, and he's a super kind dude for someone legit famous. Even his name is the coolest thing ever—Jameson Chevalier. He never gelled with it—considered it froufrou—and rebranded himself as JC on his thirteenth birthday.
Determined resolve is yet another thing my brother owns in spades.
“Whoops,” he says, shifting on the couch, his attention momentarily snagged. “Look what I found.”
Between two fingers dangles a very expensive-looking bra, JC grinning like the cat who ate the canary.
“Are you still dating Kerry?” I ask, latching on to the name I last recall.
He shrugs and sets the bra down. “In her mind we are. But you know how it goes at the House of JC.”I sure do. JC slips in and out of relationships like I do pairs of shorts. “And when are you going to take the plunge?” he asks. “All those chicks dive-bombing you and not a single one worthy of your heart? Your meat can only take so much personal abuse.”
“Actually…” I take a deep pull of my frosty lager then clear out the thickness in my throat. “I met someone.”
This news shocks him into a sitting position. “Is the sex any good?”
“Uhm …. we haven’t made it that far.”
“Does she live in Greece?”
“No. She works for a winery.”
He peers at me straight on. “Winery, as in Nero Vino?”
“Yup.”
“Wait.” He tilts his head in the manner of someone calculating. “Today is Thursday and you got there ... Saturday?”
“That’s why we haven’t made it that far.”
He breaks into howling laughter. “Jesus, Rhys. Does she know you like her? Or are you still hiding out in the dark corners silently pining?”
I feel my cheeks go hot. JC tried hard to wrench me out of my shy shell. But after one too many parties where I hovered in the corner, too scared to talk to any woman, he stopped dragging me out.
“She’s the head of marketing,” I say. “My boss, effectively.”
His eyes light up as he bites back a smirk. “Are you still mesmerized by women in authority?”
As expected, JC roughs me up whenever he can. Although I admit there is something alluring about powerful females in a suit. “How about instead of taking the piss out of me, you give me some advice?”
He leans back to get comfy, running a hand through hair that a music reporter (female, of course) once described as the color of melted dark chocolate. For reals. “Lay it on me, buddy. The doctor is in.”
I can count the number of times JC has paid full attention to any of my stories on one hand. This time, he is dialed in. Laser-focused. Not a single interruption. When I wrap up my summary of what’s transpired, his mouth hangs near his knees.
“Holy shit, bro,” he says, stunned, and a little in awe. “I mean, hot stuff, but not very professional taking you down during a photo shoot.”
