Page 4 of My Grape Crush
Colin rolls my two suitcases inside and pauses, admiring the villa. It’s polished and sleek, with an open floor plan and furniture that’s all clean lines and rectangles. Lots of greige. The kind of space Marie Kondo would take one look at and say,“My work here is done.”
“You’ll do just fine here, Rhys,” he concludes. “Especially with a boss as pretty as yours.”
His eyes are bright and playful as he shoots me a buddy wink. My own laugh catches me by surprise. Pretty? Try jettisoned onto Earth from some alternate dimension where Glamazons run free. Have I ever seen a mouth that tempting? Cherry-red blasphemy on a flawless, pale face worthy of a shrine. The immaculate luster of her hair, black as sin and hanging halfway down her back, gave rise to treacherous thoughts that continue to swirl in my brain.
Is it wrong to visualize mounting someone you just met?
“Thanks, man,” I say. “And I appreciate you lending an ear.”
I fish a crumpled hundred Euro note from my pocket and hand it over. Colin tucks it into his slacks, examining me with a thoughtful expression.
“I hope you find the strength to sort things out,” he says. “We only have so much time on this earth.”
He steps in to hug me, and why the hell not? During the five-hour drive, I’d spilled my life story. That’s how it goes, right? It's far easier to vent your demons to a stranger.Well, slight correction. “Demons” make me sound rage-filled or unhinged. The trending PC word is “issues,” and I have plenty of them.
One of the reasons I agreed to this gig is its proximity to the issues that need sorting.
Man-hug in the can, Colin leaves me to scope out my temporary home. Bettina assured me the accommodations were five-star—paramount for a guy who spends most of his spare time in a hammock. I wander into the bedroom for a closer look at the damn bed she insisted on. All my counterparts were supposedly padding out their riders with outrageous asks, and since arguing with Bettina is like showing up at the Battle of Normandy with a butter knife, I sucked it up.
Now I wish I’d pushed back.
Under the vaulted ceiling and extravagant tiered chandelier, the “it” mattress, filled with horsehair and guaranteed to make me sleep like an immortal vampire, looks like any other bed.
Forty grand of stupidity for a five-week stint?
What a waste of money.
I'll ask Evelyn if we can donate it to Dani later. Anyone who survives seven hours of micromanaging me through Bettina deserves a reward. Plus, Dani surprised me—beyond just being a woman.Instead of acting all gaga, like an overpaid influencer is effecting real change in the world, she had no problem taking the piss out of me and my vast credentials. And some tall women are self-conscious about their height, but she held my gaze.
All five foot ten of her, give or take.
I wash my hands in the master bathroom, deliberating long and hard on her teasing. Friendly or flirty? I can never tell the difference. Maybe a distraction is what I need. Five weeks with a bunch of strangers worried me at first, but the nerves have dwindled. Dani seems normal. And with women and me, normal is a rarity.
I seem to attract all the unstable ones.
On cue, my phone buzzes deep in my pocket. I slide it out, skim the message, and white noise roars in my ears. How did Myla Borak wrangle my number?
MB: Hiii! Miss me yet? xoxo
I wouldn’t describe our time together as emotionally potent, and is it even possible to miss a first-class nut job? I shut my eyes and sink against the tiled counter edge, my mind tumbling backward into last week.
My buddy Dmitri tagged us all for a rager on his yacht, and it felt like a good idea at the time. A new house DJ would spin under the stars. Legendary refreshments. Plus, I needed a night out.
An hour into the party, I was buzzing from wicked tunes and smooth Stoli on ice when a blonde—more trashy-glam than pretty—plopped into the hot tub beside me and started talking my ear off.
Myla and Dmitri were supposedly anitem, a term harder to pin down in the hedonistic trust-funder social groups I move in. (“She’s not your girl; it's just your turn,” is how they explain it.) Five minutes into our mindless conversation, I surmised Myla was one of those women in the Mediterranean famous for doing nothing but hopping from bed to bed. I also have a sixth sense for when people are a little off, and the arrow tilted into the danger zone with her.
Sure enough, when two in the morning rolled around, guess who staggered into the taxi with me for the ride home?
Sleeping with her was a giant mistake.
The next morning, I peeled out of bed at noon and found her watering my potted herbs in the kitchen. I did the polite thing and made us coffee. Then I dropped several hints about my busy day. But it went in one ear and out the other because she asked me if I wanted pasta or salad for lunch. Yup. An unmistakable Crazy. I forcibly had to eject her, and we most definitely did not exchange numbers.
My eyes pop open, and I stare at the wall, unblinking.
This all points to Dmitri.
He sailed off the next morning without Myla and sent me a thumbs-up emoji.
