Page 6 of The Brat and the Bodyguard

“But I’m a globally famous rap superstar,” he says. “Besides, I’ll be with you the entire time, baby. I’m not going to make you walk the arrivals carpet on your own. And I plan on making my own entrance too.”

I stare at him.

“I doubt anything could outdo this dress,” is my dry remark.

Justin smirks, the dimple in his cheek showing itself.

“No, it can be outdone,” he says in a sly tone. Then, he reaches for a black coat from a nearby rolling rack before pulling it on over his broad shoulders. He turns, and to my horror, “White Lives Matter” is spelled out in rhinestones on his coat.

“See?” he smirks. “You can be outdone.”

I gasp, the blood draining from my face.

“No,” I whisper. “Please, Justin. Don’t wear that.”

My boyfriend merely smirks again.

“Why, are you offended Ainsley? You shouldn’t be. White livesdomatter.”

I sputter because how can I explain this to my boyfriend? It seems almost impossible, and yet I have to try.

“Justin, that slogan is a reaction to the BLM movement. It’s been adopted and promoted by white supremacist groups and sympathizers. It’s got MAGA hate written all over it.”

Justin smirks again.

“That’s howyouchoose to see it, but it’s not howIchoose to see it. And with the re-election of our latest, greatest President, I think this coat is apt. I think it’s absolutely speaking for how many Americans feel at the current moment, and I’m proud to be their standard-bearer. WLM forever.”

Oh my god, this is even worse than I thought.

“No,” I breathe. “Please don’t. I’m begging you. I will wear this naked dress however many times you want, Justin, but I’m begging you to take off that coat. It’s a political statement and we don’t need that at a fashion show!”

“Yes, we do,” Justin smirks again. “Make America Great Again. Hold the blue line. Didn’t AOC wear a gown spray-painted with “Tax The Rich” to the Met Gala? If that bitch can wear something so crude to a black tie event, then I can certainly wear this. Besides, fucking AOC is a politician who’s supposed to be legislating and shit like that, but instead she’s going to the Met gala and hobnobbing with said rich people that she purportedly wants to tax! Isn’t that fucking ironic?”

“Justin,” I say in a careful tone. “I’m not going to respond to that because this isn’t the time to debate Ms. Ocasio-Cortez’s political motives nor her publicity stunts—”

My boyfriend stares at me.

“So you acknowledge her dress was a political stunt.”

I exhale slowly, trying to keep my blood pressure in check.

“Of course I do,” I respond in an even tone. “Allpoliticians pull stunts—”

“As do rap superstars like myself,” Justin finishes before picking up his phone. “Our ride is here, Ainsley. Are you ready?” he asks, one black brow quirked. “Ready to get off your high horse, sweetheart? The Dems suffered a crushing defeat in the recent election, so I think it’s time to stop with the sanctimonious lecturing, don’t you agree?”

Then, my boyfriend is out the door with the horrific jacket still on his back. My stomach drops to my feet because I don’t want to attend the after party anymore ... and yet I know I have to show my face.

* * *

The party wasevery bit as horrific as I anticipated. Justin and I arrived on the red carpet, me clutching my black jacket with white knuckles under my chin. Then, at the appointed moment, I dropped my jacket, revealing my lush curves, while Justin turned around, showing off the “White Lives Matter” message emblazoned on his back.

The response was immediate. Flashes went off in pops, blinding me with their light.

“Turn this way, sweetheart!” one photographer yelled. “We want to catch a shot.”

I could hardly force myself to move. My cheeks were scarlet with humiliation, and my knees wobbled. I didn’t want to give them a full-frontal, but it was already happening. My big breasts were out, the Double D’s swinging, and my pussy was oddly swollen for such an exposed moment. I half-expected my clit to shrink in on itself, but instead, I could feel it growing large and hard, pushing itself out of its hood. What in the world? I managed a wan half-smile, but Justin elbowed me.

“No smiling,” he hissed. “We want to give off an editorial air. You know, high fashion and haute couture. Nothing plebeian.”

---