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

BRENDA

Valerie

All the time and money I spent just getting my hands on all the newest and most exclusive stuff in NYC, and we didn't even use any of it. When I was cyber stalking him last night I noticed at least 90% of his suits were custom-made, so when all the publicists heard we were shooting Charlie Knight for Forbes everyone wanted to dress him, and I mean everyone. They were throwing things at me left, right, and center.

The way that pink suit fit him today, it was undoubtedly custom; it was perfect across his wide, muscular frame and went in at the waist nicely. On anyone else the pink and floral print on his shirt would have looked garish, but on Knight it made him look untouchable by mere mortals.

I used to be like him, untouchable. I always got what I wanted, whenever I wanted. When you grow up in a world of excess your sense of normalcy is way off and you rebel for different reasons. Not because your parents say 'no', 'you can't do this' or, 'you can't have that'. It's because they shove money at you instead of their most precious commodity, the one thing all children need the most from their parents; their time.

It was always easier for my parents to forego any real parenting and throw money at the problem, the problem being me. I was a real brat in my teenage years until my best friend Brenda, who didn't come from money, just finally said, "Get over yourself" and cut me off. I didn't see her for years, and it was the first time I had ever lost something real that I couldn't get back. Not without pulling my head out of my ass and following her advice.

It's not easy finding real friends, there's always that little voice in the back of your head that questions everyone's motives for wanting to be around you. Are they a leech? Do they just want to be seen with you because of your name?

I left that life and started looking for work that I could do not because of my name, but because I was good at it, and enjoyed it. Fashion was always something that interested me so that's how I fell into Cindy. Sure, I did use a connection of my mom's at first, but once I got my big toe through the door, I got the job as her assistant all on my own. It felt good to not be a total fuck up. That being said I don't actually need the money, I just want a purpose other than being a consumer.

By the time I got home to my penthouse, it was dark and Brenda was making dinner with music playing. After years of working on myself, I reached out to her, and it didn't take long for us to be friends again.

I fall face forward onto the couch, "That smells so good, what are you making?"

"Nachos." God bless Brenda, nacho queen. If I had to choose one food to eat for the rest of my life it would be nachos.

I lift up my arm, "Can you just hook it up straight to my veins?"

"I found that Japanese beer you like, and if you want anything, you'll have to come get it yourself."

I immediately sit up, "Beer?"

"Yeah, it's in the fridge," that was all I needed to hear, and my ass magically floated off the couch and found its way to the fridge, "It was $20 a bottle so I used your card."

I open it and take a sip, "It's like drinking pure gold. Mm, thank you."

Brenda puts down the bowl of guacamole she just finished mixing and looks at me with her full attention, "So? How was the shoot with the hottest man alive?"

"I had to change my panties, twice," Brenda laughs, she even does that snort thing with her nose at the end which makes us both laugh a little harder, "It was fine, pretty much what you'd expect. Cindy was wearing her Chanel."

"Oh wow, subtle," Brenda pulls a dish full of corn chips and melted cheese from the oven.

"Like a sledgehammer, but only if you speak her label language," I hesitate and pull the business card that I stashed in my bra, "He left his card on my stuff," Brenda's eyes widen, "It's got his private number on the back."

Brenda's mouth drops, "Holy cow, are you going to call him?"

I shake my head, "No, I don't want to get sucked into that world again."

Brenda takes off the oven mitts very dramatically and puts her hand on her hips. Ooh, her lecturing stance, here it comes. "Valerie, you can try as hard as you want, but you can't change who you are and where you came from," she does a dramatic scan of the apartment, "I mean, look at this place."

I look around my penthouse. We overlook Central Park in one of the newest buildings in New York, "What about it?"

"You think you've left that world, but let's face it, you're one foot in and one foot out."

As much as I didn't want to admit it the Picasso on the wall said it all.

The truth is I do want to call him. The only thing stopping me is the idea that I'd not only be just another link on his playboy chain. That and the media spotlight he would shine my way would expose my identity, who I really am, and I'd most likely lose my job, and that job is the one thing I can truly say I got on my own merit.

Later that night, after a few more beers on the balcony, I ripped up the business card and tossed it into the fire pit.

Okay, sure, fine, I might have memorized his number, but the card itself went up in flames.