The "Stylist" | Book I in a Series of Mistaken Identities

BLUSH PINK VELVET PANTS...?

Valerie

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," I mutter to myself as I wave down a taxi like a maniac.

I'm going to be late, and I'm never late. I'm never early either, I'm always, ALWAYS on time. For whatever reason my trusty little Mini Cooper S decided that today, the day of the most important shoot of the year, was the day to quit on life and left me stranded in the middle of the city with a giant suitcase full of crap my boss probably won't even need today. I need a cigarette.

My boss is one of the top fashion stylists in all of New York and today is the day we do a cover shot for next month's Forbes Magazine. Yes, it's late notice, but when you're photographing a man who's wanted by everyone, everywhere, and whose time is more precious than God's apparently, then yes, you work around his tight schedule. Cindy's going to fire me. I'm dead. Dead and unemployed, great combo. Go me!

There's a reason everyone wants to be Cindy's assistant, and there's a reason she goes through 6 of them per annum. The standards are high and at ten months I think I've set a new record for lasting the longest, but I think my luck is about to run out.

I shove the suitcase into the back seat of the taxi with my foot and rattle off the address to the driver.

I hold up a crisp new bill out of my purse and my driver's eyes lock onto it. "I'll tip you a hundred bucks if you make it there in ten minutes."

That was all the motivation he needed, and I could feel my nerves turn to excitement as we pulled up outside the once warehouse building turned photography studio, on time. I was looking at my watch counting down the seconds until he pulled up.

"Suck it, New York!" Chris the cabbie shouts as he gets out of the car.

We got to know one another very quickly in the short time we had together. He seems like a cool guy, grew up in Barbados and has a cute Caribbean accent.

I watch Chris drag my oversized suitcase out of the back seat and he rolls it over to me on the sidewalk.

"You're a legend. I'll need a ride home from here at about 2 o'clock if you're still on by then," I hold up the money I owe him, plus the promised tip.

Chris takes the cash with a big smile on his face and stuffs it into his hat, "You can count on me Miss Valerie, I'll be here."

"Thank you," I take a lollipop out of my purse as I watch Chris wave and drive off.

I stuff the bright red lollipop into my mouth and moan in pleasure. Ever since I quit smoking my purse has been stuffed with a variety of candy to take the edge off. I'm jogging, brushing, and flossing more than ever to make up for the extra sugar but it's got to be better than cancer, right? Ugh, coffee, must find coffee.

I grab the handle of my suitcase and notice there's someone watching me from the corner of my eye, and when our eyes meet I recognize him immediately.

That's the jolly fellow we're photographing for the cover, Charles Knight; billionaire, philanthropist, sex on a stick. And when I say jolly, I mean anything but that. What a grumpasaurus.

The guy's known for being uncompromising and diagnosed with major "stick up the butt" syndrome. In a world where you're trading millions, it's a bit of a requirement, but damn, he seems to take that stick everywhere, he's basically scowling at me with murderous intent. Maybe he needs a cigarette?

He's just watching me, leaning on his car with his hands stuffed into his pockets. I don't know how he's doing it, but he's pulling off a black and pink floral shirt with blush pink, velvet pants. Blush pink, velvet pants. What kind of man leaves the house wearing something like this? Charles goddamned Knight, that's who, and damn does he look fine.

And that car his perfectly formed ass is leaning on is a Bugatti La Voiture Noire. One of my favorite vehicles designed by man.

He's so hot it makes me sick, and he has my car? It makes me want to punish him, and I can't think of a better way than stripping him naked and sitting on his face. Hah, that'll teach him.

I spend a lot of time around models so being surrounded by hot men doesn't usually affect me, but this guy? What I realize, as I blatantly gawk at him sucking on my candy, is that he has something very few men have; validated confidence. Some men feign to have it, but he is rightly earned, it's not fake. He started with nothing, and now at 29, he's one of the richest men on earth.

Not sure why he's still staring at me though.

Not sure why I'm still staring at him, "Why don't you take a picture, it'll last longer."

A little spark of fear hits my gut when his already fierce brows knit together. Then, to my surprise, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and goes to take a picture. I throw up a big smile and a peace sign with my fingers.

The moment I think he's done I grab my suitcase and motor out of there. I think I caught the tiniest of smiles creep onto his lips as I went inside but I'll put it down to my stress and sugar-induced delirium.

Of course, I didn't leave it at that, I turn around and just have to throw my two cents right at him, "Oh, and by the way, what you've done to that car is a travesty. They named it Noir for a reason."

I just can't help it. Every one of those cars comes in black off the line, he's had his painted a strange pearlescent silver. It's not ugly, but it's not Noir.

At least it wasn't blush pink to match those wack pants.