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Authors: Caitlin Daire
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“Hilarious. Well, let’s get down to business.”
I pulled out a file I’d quickly made up this morning after Pierce had called and offered me the job. “Okay, so you know why I’m here,” I said, patting the bench.
He sat down on a barstool next to me. “Yep. You’re here to fix my image and manage me; make sure I don’t do stupid shit. And you’ll book me better modeling jobs, apparently.”
“Pretty much, yeah,” I replied, glad he wasn’t making this difficult for me yet. “Anyway, I’ve been looking at a bunch of recent gossip blog posts about you, and you have two main problems.”
He grinned. “This and this?” he said, flexing his biceps. “Too muscular and powerful?”
I frowned. “Once again, you’re an idiot who can’t take anything seriously. Why am I even surprised?”
“Sorry. Go on,” he replied, flashing me a panty-melting grin.
I swallowed hard, knowing I had to resist. “Your first problem is the fact that you’re a gigantic man-whore. You’ve practically slept with every woman in this city.”
“Bullshit.”
“You have according to the internet.”
“Yeah, and nothing false has ever been written on the internet,” he said sarcastically. “Look, I go out a lot, and I try to have a good time. Doesn’t mean I’m fucking literally every girl I’m photographed with.”
“So you haven’t slept with her, her and her?” I asked, sliding a few recent photos over to him. The photos were of him practically falling out of three different nightclubs with three different socialites.
“Well, fine, maybe I slept with those three…”
I felt a stab of anguish as he admitted it. I didn’t know why, but part of me had been wishing he’d deny it all. The three women in question were the complete opposite of me—they were tall, leggy and blonde. I felt like a frumpy Lord of the Rings hobbit compared to them, even though I usually didn’t feel insecure about my body.
I soldiered on despite the awful feeling. “Anyway, people don’t take you seriously,” I said. “They think you’re an irresponsible party animal. A playboy.”
He smirked. “What’s so bad about that?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not handsome enough to be this dumb,” I replied. “You know exactly what’s bad about that.”
He feigned a deeply hurt expression. “Ooh, that was harsh,” he said. “I think I’ll need to go to a hospital after that burn. Seriously, though. Enlighten me. What’s wrong with being called a playboy? Are you talking about it in regards to my career, or something else…?”
I blushed. I wanted to fully answer his question, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do so right now. “Let’s just stick to how it affects your career,” I said. “If people don’t take you seriously, you’ll never book serious campaigns.”
“I booked a Calvin Klein campaign a few months back,” he said. “That’s pretty serious.”
“Yes, and they dropped you after your image took a turn for the worse, which brings me to your second major problem. The drug scandal.”
“You don’t think I did that, do you? Do you really think I’d risk my life—and other people’s lives—by doing blow right before a major race?”
I shrugged. “How would I know?”
“Are you serious, Anya? One of the first things I ever said to you was how much I hate drugs. Remember? Your shitty date was high as fuck, and you were bitching about that when I said it.”
My face turned even hotter. “You said and did a lot of disingenuous stuff that night.”
“Did I? Right, sure. Guess that means I’m definitely a junkie then,” he said, eyes darkening.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. He actually looked hurt, and I felt like a bitch for pressing the issue, even though I couldn’t stand him.
He let out a long sigh. “It’s fine, I guess. I don’t blame you for thinking I did it. It looked pretty suspicious when my whole pit crew tested positive for coke, except for me. The cops know I
“Hilarious. Well, let’s get down to business.”
I pulled out a file I’d quickly made up this morning after Pierce had called and offered me the job. “Okay, so you know why I’m here,” I said, patting the bench.
He sat down on a barstool next to me. “Yep. You’re here to fix my image and manage me; make sure I don’t do stupid shit. And you’ll book me better modeling jobs, apparently.”
“Pretty much, yeah,” I replied, glad he wasn’t making this difficult for me yet. “Anyway, I’ve been looking at a bunch of recent gossip blog posts about you, and you have two main problems.”
He grinned. “This and this?” he said, flexing his biceps. “Too muscular and powerful?”
I frowned. “Once again, you’re an idiot who can’t take anything seriously. Why am I even surprised?”
“Sorry. Go on,” he replied, flashing me a panty-melting grin.
I swallowed hard, knowing I had to resist. “Your first problem is the fact that you’re a gigantic man-whore. You’ve practically slept with every woman in this city.”
“Bullshit.”
“You have according to the internet.”
“Yeah, and nothing false has ever been written on the internet,” he said sarcastically. “Look, I go out a lot, and I try to have a good time. Doesn’t mean I’m fucking literally every girl I’m photographed with.”
“So you haven’t slept with her, her and her?” I asked, sliding a few recent photos over to him. The photos were of him practically falling out of three different nightclubs with three different socialites.
“Well, fine, maybe I slept with those three…”
I felt a stab of anguish as he admitted it. I didn’t know why, but part of me had been wishing he’d deny it all. The three women in question were the complete opposite of me—they were tall, leggy and blonde. I felt like a frumpy Lord of the Rings hobbit compared to them, even though I usually didn’t feel insecure about my body.
I soldiered on despite the awful feeling. “Anyway, people don’t take you seriously,” I said. “They think you’re an irresponsible party animal. A playboy.”
He smirked. “What’s so bad about that?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not handsome enough to be this dumb,” I replied. “You know exactly what’s bad about that.”
He feigned a deeply hurt expression. “Ooh, that was harsh,” he said. “I think I’ll need to go to a hospital after that burn. Seriously, though. Enlighten me. What’s wrong with being called a playboy? Are you talking about it in regards to my career, or something else…?”
I blushed. I wanted to fully answer his question, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do so right now. “Let’s just stick to how it affects your career,” I said. “If people don’t take you seriously, you’ll never book serious campaigns.”
“I booked a Calvin Klein campaign a few months back,” he said. “That’s pretty serious.”
“Yes, and they dropped you after your image took a turn for the worse, which brings me to your second major problem. The drug scandal.”
“You don’t think I did that, do you? Do you really think I’d risk my life—and other people’s lives—by doing blow right before a major race?”
I shrugged. “How would I know?”
“Are you serious, Anya? One of the first things I ever said to you was how much I hate drugs. Remember? Your shitty date was high as fuck, and you were bitching about that when I said it.”
My face turned even hotter. “You said and did a lot of disingenuous stuff that night.”
“Did I? Right, sure. Guess that means I’m definitely a junkie then,” he said, eyes darkening.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. He actually looked hurt, and I felt like a bitch for pressing the issue, even though I couldn’t stand him.
He let out a long sigh. “It’s fine, I guess. I don’t blame you for thinking I did it. It looked pretty suspicious when my whole pit crew tested positive for coke, except for me. The cops know I
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