"You know, men who—well, you're—" She looks around like the word can just be plucked out of thin air, and sighs. "Assholes."
I lean in, caging my little assistant in with both arms, eyes narrowed. I don't like what she's insinuating. "Are you rethinking your employment with me, Denali?" It's only been a day. Maybe I've been a bit much, but I need to know she can handle this. I need to be unfiltered, not watered down, because it's important that she knows what she's facing.
"I never said I was quitting," she points out, leaning back like I don't scare her in the least. "You're not the first asshole I've worked for. And I doubt you'll be the last."
Well, then.
"You know what, Denali?" I lean in close enough to pick up the scent of her shampoo: lilac. "I think we're going to get along just fine."
chapter four
Denali
Keepingup with this man is killing me, quite literally. He never stops moving, and if he does, I have yet to see it.
We left the interview and immediately made haste to a company-required fitting, which happened to be in one of the most upscale spots I've ever set foot in. The clothes in this place cost more than a month's salary for me, but I'm not here to shop. I'm here to assist, supervise, and handle.
So that's what I do. I post up in the most comfortable seat in the room, which just so happens to be right next to the dressing rooms, and I open up the walkthrough worksheet the first assistant put together for his successors.
It's not very detailed, but at the same time, it is. For someone like me, just jumping into this job with no formal training and experience, this is a lifeline. Someone with their wits about them who'd put time in the industry in this position might find it useless. I treat it like gold.
Kai Kobayashi is a demanding man. But if you're reading this, you've likely already found this out. When provoked, this temperament can get worse, so you'll frequently need to handle the client with kid gloves.
Funny, I don't get the feeling kid gloves would make a damn bit of difference with this man. And I'm not the kind of person to bust out kid gloves for anyone. It's just not who I am. So I move on to the next section, chewing on the end of the stylus absently as three store associates and a stylist fawn over Kai in the corner mirrors, tugging at his jacket and pants like he's a living, breathing doll.
Your success at this job depends a lot on maintaining a professional distance and being able to meet the strenuous and lofty demands of the client's needs. Good luck and godspeed to you for that. He's not human.
That earns me a snort, because it's spot on. He reallyisn'thuman, with how much he seems to cram in a single day. Hell, I don't even seelunchpenciled in on his calendar, and that's, like, a necessity. Does he not eat or sleep?
"Mr. Kobayashi, we?—"
"No, I don't think you're hearing me. I'm not in any way, shape, or form sliding into those fucking ridiculous pants. Why are there two waistbands? Why do they look like two pairs of jeans smashed into one? What's the point? Whose idea of fashion is this?"
I glance up from the reading material in my hand, and I'm not quick enough, or professional enough, to keep the burst of laughter from escaping my lips.
He's standing there in a crop top, which looks admittedly good on him, but the jeans they've squeezed him into are absolutely ridiculous. Everything he said about them is right, and more. They're a laughingstock, and though I know I've seen several comebacks with those same style of jeans do well, they're stupid, in my personal, humble opinion.
Fans will overlook a lot for an idol they adore. But Kai is a newcomer in this part of town, and there's no way anyone could possibly think this is a good idea.
His eyes bore holes in my head. "You think this isfunny?"
I've got like, a split second to debate how I want to answer that. I go with honesty, because so far, it seems to be the only thing he responds well to.
"Ah, well, it feels like someone's intentionally trying to tank your planned comeback, honestly, with jeans like those."
His stylist, a short man who makes Kai look tall, with a crooked nose and a buzz cut painted in wild patterns, throws his hands in the air and screams in frustration. "You think you can do this better than me? Fine! I quit!"
As he storms off, Kai and I watch him go with twin looks of surprise and frustration on our faces, my tablet hanging limply in my grip, stylus still trapped between my teeth. And then, Kai starts laughing as he drags a hand down his face.
"Great! As if I wasn't already far enough behind, now I'm down a stylist." He pins me with a glare, like this is somehow my fault. "I don't suppose you have a solution, new assistant of mine?"
What do I have to lose at this point? As a social media manager, I see a shitload of style icons in my daily feed, and I'm constantly keeping track of what's in and what's not, so I can guide my clients in what will get the most attention, for good or bad reasons.
Surely I can dress an idol well enough with the knowledge I have, right?
"Why don't I give it a crack?"
He stares at me like I've lost my mind. "You're not a stylist."
