Page 46 of My Grape Crush
Honestly? I’m beginning to worry in real time. Myla is crossing a line, and I don't have the energy to deal with Interpol or whoever handles the weirdos. After blocking her number, I feel better, but a lingering sense of unease remains.
Fans used to be chill once upon a time. There's a hysteria to them now that unsettles me. From my vantage point last night—crammed onto the floorboard of the Beemer—I saw no faces but heard the shrill desperation in their voices. A demand that I somehow owed them an appearance in exchange for stalking me.
Not a chance.
Not after that scene from London two years ago.
A group of us influencers scored VIP invites to a Wimbledon after-party hosted by Drake. The tunes rocked, and we partied hard, but the mob we got caught up in after—it was scary shit. I walked out of the club at midnight with some legit stars, and a screaming horde of fangirls stormed past the unprepared security-for-hire squeezed into their Suit Warehouse specials.They closed around us with the frenzy of vultures descending on a carcass.
It felt surreal, like being in the eye of a storm.
A cluster of humanity ebbing and flowing.
Hands grabbing at me.
A favorite t-shirt got ripped, and my scalp throbbed for days where a chunk of hair got yanked out.
I camped out in Corfu doing a month of solitary after that debacle.
And still, one of the Crazies stalked me there.
I roll onto my side, tucking a pillow between my legs, mind revving in overdrive. This racket—the internet race to the bottom—cannot continue. It is that simple. I need to pursue something different, but I can’t put my finger on thehow-to.And what other skills do I have?Real acting? Not a chance, unless Brazzers is hiring.
Jizz in the vineyard? You got it!
Fuck me.
As I ruminate on paths and possibilities, my phone buzzes on the side table. I grab it, paranoia creeping in, half-expecting more Myla harassment. But it's Sawyer, trying me for the third time. I send him to the outer space of voicemail, knowing it will infuriate him. Yeah, I should be the bigger person and thank him for stepping up last night, but his ridiculous comment pissed me off.
My girlfriend and I need to Netflix and chill.
Is there anything worse than cowering on the floorboards of your brother’s pimpmobile, and then, hey, he decides to emasculate you?!What a jerk. Am I surprised? Not after I crashed his party last night. Concerned that his limited charms might sway Dani, I called every restaurant, knowing Sawyer, like Dad, would rather take a bullet than show up without a reservation.
Waiting for a table is what commoners do.
Was it my imagination, or did Dani look downright relieved to see my face?
She looked hot and sharp, flawlessly dressed. I own nothing that needs a hanger, but is it time to invest in a blazer? Hard to picture me and Dani hitting the town when her effortless dazzle outshines my best wrinkle-free tee times infinity.
Is my idle vibe holding her back? Or the five-week expiration date stamped on my forehead? She strikes me as the tactical type, risk-averse to messing around with a stranger who plans to hightail it home, paycheck cashed. The thing is, I don’t know how jazzed I am to head home. All that awaits is more of the same, as the world turns and another year of mindlessness drifts by.
But where do I go?
More importantly, how do Dani and I kick back with a glass of wine and work up to first base when she home-runned me on day three? I’ve never ping-ponged between the extremes of Nude Encounters of the First Kind and Dry Hump 101. Never felt this weird glow, like I’m radioactive. My mind and soul lit up. Thirty-six hours in each other's orbits, and I'm flailing like a man lost at sea.
I need to get a grip. Organize my thoughts, my life, and how to tranquilize the desperate urge to claim Dani’s mouth. And somehow escape these fangirls.
I check the time on my phone. Dani lands in an hour, along with Francis and Rita, to talk filming around a fleet of Ccrazies. I’m praying to God, this time, shit doesn't get weird.
Dani arrives first, hair twirled into a high bun. A weird tension crackles around her, like a whole other atmosphere. The very definition of preoccupied.
“Morning,” I say. “Come in. It looks like you could use a coffee.”
She throws me a relieved look. “That would be great."
Dani glides past me, curves wrapped tight in a purple dress and rocking nude heels with zippers on the back. Booty high and swinging. My heart goes a little nuts. Every time I see her, I feel this breathless high.
“Latte or cappuccino?” I ask.
