Page 1 of The Brat and the Bodyguard

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Ainsley

“You’re going to do great,” my boyfriend, Justin, nods as his blue eyes scan my curves. “You look amazing, Ains.”

I shoot him a faint smile.

“You think?”

Justin rubs one finger along his chiseled jaw, scrutinizing my figure.

“Oh yeah, definitely. You look hot, sweetheart. Classy and not trashy, which I was afraid might happen.”

I shoot him another wan smile but then force myself to turn it into a genuine one because Justin’s the king of double-edged compliments. Sometimes, I wish I could slap his handsome face because of the unkind innuendo in his statements. But I push his comment from my mind because this is not the time and place. Today is my big break. I’m in Vegas to pursue a career as a plus-size model and it’s actually kind of happening! I’m walking the runway for La Bianca, a sexy swimsuit line, and there’s a ton of press and photographers outside, not to mention editors, buyers, stylists, and everyone who’s someone in the industry.

Of course, I do wish that I had abitmore clothing on, but then again, La Bianca specializes in bikinis, so skimpiness is to be expected. Still, it’s not just the teensy amount of fabric that makes things so revealing. It’s that the fabric’s so thin and filmy that the outline of my nipples is visible, like a mysterious shadow behind the gauze. The bikini bottoms are a bit more modest, but only by a hair. Shoestrings criss-cross my wide hips, and of course, there’s a patch of fabric shielding my sweetest spot from view. But still, I feel exposed and the waft of cool air drifting between my thighs only underlines the lack of covering down there. I pull my legs tight together instinctively, my nerves making goosebumps prickle.

But Justin frowns.

“No, no,” my boyfriend scolds, his blue eyes darkening with displeasure. “Don’t hunch like that. No one wants to see a model with bad posture. Don’t you want to make a good impression, Ainsley? Stand up straight. Maria,” he calls while clapping his hands twice to get the wardrobe assistant’s attention. “Can you bring over Ainsley’s shoes? Yes, the pink glitter ones. Perfect,” he says as she scurries over, stilettos in hand.

I step into the heels, instantly feeling wobbly in the towering five inchers. Oh my god, this is going to be a disaster! The runway is made of clear acrylic, and looks as slippery as hell. There are blinding lights along the sides, making it difficult to see, and music’s already beginning to blast at a deafening level. I have a bad feeling about this.

But Justin coos his support.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart. You’re going to knock the audience off its feet!”

I manage another feeble smile.

“Well, I just hope I make it down the runway in one piece because the stage lights are overpowering, and these heels arenotsafe, Justin. I don’t know why the designers want us to wear them either! Wouldn’t flip-flops be more apropos for swimwear?”

My handsome boyfriend shoots me an aghast look.

“No, because first, not everyone wears flipflops to the pool. Some ladies like to look elegant and put-together, and flipflops are the epitome of sloppiness! Second, because this is a fashion show, Ainsley,” he says in a condescending voice. “You’re new to haute couture so I don’t expect you to understand, but high fashion isnotabout real life. High fashion is about creating a fantasy. Something that people aspire to, or that moves them from within. Something that isfantastical.”

I stare at him.

“I get it. Fantasy and fantastical have the same root.”

“Yes, exactly,” Justin singsongs. “Besides we want to give off a Victoria’s Secret vibe. You know, sexy and glamorous with big hair and teetering heels. I spoke to Bianca and Mario right before the show, and we see eye to eye when it comes to creative direction. Trust me, Ainsley, the stilettos arecrucialto the overall vibe.”

I frown because I understand that image is everything in the world of fashion, but what about being safe? I don’t want to break my neck on the narrow runway. Will I even qualify for worker’s comp? Plus, Justin annoys me sometimes. He’s supposed to be a loving, supportive boyfriend, but instead, he’s more like a controlling micro-manager of all matters large and small.

But I know I should be grateful because Justin West is a charismatic superstar. He’s a rapper turned designer turned celebrity stylist turned renaissance man. His clothing brand, Prowler, has a blockbuster line in collaboration with shoe powerhouse Adirite, and he rakes in millions each year. So yes, as an aspiring model, I know I should consider myself lucky to be seen on Justin’s arm. Even the likes I get on Instagram, and the number of followers I have, skyrocketed after I started appearing with him in public.

But we’ve never slept together, and that’s one of the weird mysteries about our relationship. Yes, he’s my boyfriend. Yes, we do all the expected things in public, like feeding each other food off our plates, and staring dreamily into each other’s eyes while strolling along a beach. But Justin has never touched me inthatway, and I’m not sure why. Sometimes, I wonder if he’s gay, but he doesn’t date men either. Not even in secret. Instead, Justin seems happy to hold me out as a “girlfriend,” even if we’re not intimate.

Still, who cares? Again, we work in industries where image is everything, and my boyfriend is an expert at projecting a dominant alpha male vibe, with his brooding blue eyes, dark-as-night hair, and muscular physique. Does it matter if we’ve never actually slept together? In the eyes of the public, I’m dating a powerful male celebrity who’s growly and possessive, with millions at his fingertips.

So I smile again while trying to summon the goddess within.

“Okay. Will do,” I say. “Got it. We’re channeling Victoria’s Secret.”

Still, personally,Ifeel the designers are reading the era wrong. I thought the Victoria’s Secret look was out, with its big, bouncy hair and emphasis on the color pink. But judging from the excitement outside, this is exactly what the brand wants. La Bianca seeks to project sexy, feminine, and curvy girls who fill out their swimsuits with wide, swinging hips as opposed to thin, scrawny girls with the frames of twelve-year old boys. Again, I should be grateful to be here at all.

“Look alive, Ainsley,” Justin hisses from the corner of his mouth, as I wait in a line of girls waiting to go onstage. “It’s almost your turn.”

I nod in the shadows, my heart beating rapidly.You can do this, the voice in my head encourages.So what if your boyfriend sucks? He’s annoying, but he’s right. Smile, stand tall, and show them what you’re made of because this could be your big break as a plus-size model, Ainsley.

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