Page 5 of My Grape Crush
What a dick.
Deleting Myla’s text, I try to forget how ill I felt, succumbing to a one-night stand. But sometimes the dark, empty nights are too much. Life as a famous influencer has made relationships borderline impossible, and my daily DM bombardment is a banquet of questionable opportunities from the Crazies. Marriage proposals. Dick and pussy pics. The sheer volume of batshit weirdos is undeniably frightening.
To maintain my sanity, I refuse to look anymore.
Because there’s always another stan like Myla, who, after I gave her the boot, liked every single one of my posts, and that shit goes back sixteen years.
It takes a certain kind of woman to make me feel comfortable, and I’ve almost given up hope of finding her. But there was something about Dani that put me at ease. I felt a tenderness underneath the sharp suit. The odds of her being single feel slim, and even if she was, what buttoned-up career girl views a beach bum as a dream date?
And it’s not as if I captured her heart.
She has to be nice to me.
I sigh with my entire body, exhaustion creeping in. A good night’s sleep will help me reset, but adjusting to the new time zone will take even longer if I crash now.
Time to break in my shiny new espresso maker.
I hit the kitchen and pull a shot in no time. As I search the fridge for cream, my phone buzzes—a call, not a text. I have a feeling I know who it is. Sure enough, Trenton Talent Management flashes on the screen.
I’d rather not talk to my eldest brother, Sawyer, but it's better to face the music now and get it over with. I pop in my earbuds and answer with my most uninspired voice, “Hey.”
A perky female voice replies, “Hi, Rhys. It’s Janelle, Sawyer’s secretary. I’ll connect you.”
Oh yeah, silly me. Agents are too important to call you directly. And now that Sawyer has had the reins of our family business handed to him by our ailing father, he’s even more insufferable—if that’s humanly possible.
Ten seconds later, the sunshine of my life cuts through the lame hold muzak.“What the hell happened at the airport?” Sawyer barks.
“Hi. How’s it going?”
“Don’t deflect,” he saysin that big brother tone meant to put me in my place. Practical and perfectly over-achieving, Sawyer often comes across as blunt and sanctimonious.
Because, well, he is.
“One thing led to another. No big deal. I’m here.”
“Yes, it is a big deal,” he corrects. “It’s the optics. Act like you give a shit. They’re paying you a million dollars.”
I slam the fridge shut. No cream. Great. Black coffee sucks.
“Let me guess, you’ve never missed a flight.” Sawyer’s love affair with punctuality hasn’t hit OCD levels yet, but any day now.
“That’s not the point, Rhys. As surprising as it may seem, there’s more going on with this deal than just you.” His voice is very level, but there’s a sound in it like a warning.
“Meaning?”
“Nero Vino hosts a summer concert series. Their outdoor amphitheater is a perfect venue to showcase some of our up-and-coming bands.”
On one of our rambling FaceTimes two months ago, my middle brother, JC, a seriously talented musician also repped by the family biz, said the music division had taken a hit. Sawyer was on the prowl to sign the next big thing and leverage up the smaller players.
“So you’re trying to piggyback on me.” I pose it as a statement, not a question.
After a terse pause, he says, “Yes, of course. It’s all about you, baby brother.”
I irritate the hell out of Sawyer, mostly because I make twice the cash he does with eighty percent less effort. And because I abandoned Canada and left him to carry the burden of running the family business, he gets the joy of having to live up to the legacy of our father.
But Sawyer could have said no.
That’s the thing about my older brother—for all his whey powder and workouts, he’s a weakling. The world kicks out at him, and he kicks back, but not fucking hard enough.
