The Brat and the Bodyguard (Love for the Holidays #9)

Chapter 1

1

Ainsley

“Y ou’re going to do great,” my boyfriend, Justin, nods as his blue eyes scan my curves. “You look amazing, Ains.”

I shoot him a faint smile.

“You think?”

Justin rubs one finger along his chiseled jaw, scrutinizing my figure.

“Oh yeah, definitely. You look hot, sweetheart. Classy and not trashy, which I was afraid might happen.”

I shoot him another wan smile but then force myself to turn it into a genuine one because Justin’s the king of double-edged compliments. Sometimes, I wish I could slap his handsome face because of the unkind innuendo in his statements. But I push his comment from my mind because this is not the time and place. Today is my big break. I’m in Vegas to pursue a career as a plus-size model and it’s actually kind of happening! I’m walking the runway for La Bianca, a sexy swimsuit line, and there’s a ton of press and photographers outside, not to mention editors, buyers, stylists, and everyone who’s someone in the industry.

Of course, I do wish that I had a bit more clothing on, but then again, La Bianca specializes in bikinis, so skimpiness is to be expected. Still, it’s not just the teensy amount of fabric that makes things so revealing. It’s that the fabric’s so thin and filmy that the outline of my nipples is visible, like a mysterious shadow behind the gauze. The bikini bottoms are a bit more modest, but only by a hair. Shoestrings criss-cross my wide hips, and of course, there’s a patch of fabric shielding my sweetest spot from view. But still, I feel exposed and the waft of cool air drifting between my thighs only underlines the lack of covering down there. I pull my legs tight together instinctively, my nerves making goosebumps prickle.

But Justin frowns.

“No, no,” my boyfriend scolds, his blue eyes darkening with displeasure. “Don’t hunch like that. No one wants to see a model with bad posture. Don’t you want to make a good impression, Ainsley? Stand up straight. Maria,” he calls while clapping his hands twice to get the wardrobe assistant’s attention. “Can you bring over Ainsley’s shoes? Yes, the pink glitter ones. Perfect,” he says as she scurries over, stilettos in hand.

I step into the heels, instantly feeling wobbly in the towering five inchers. Oh my god, this is going to be a disaster! The runway is made of clear acrylic, and looks as slippery as hell. There are blinding lights along the sides, making it difficult to see, and music’s already beginning to blast at a deafening level. I have a bad feeling about this.

But Justin coos his support.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart. You’re going to knock the audience off its feet!”

I manage another feeble smile.

“Well, I just hope I make it down the runway in one piece because the stage lights are overpowering, and these heels are not safe, Justin. I don’t know why the designers want us to wear them either! Wouldn’t flip-flops be more apropos for swimwear?”

My handsome boyfriend shoots me an aghast look.

“No, because first, not everyone wears flipflops to the pool. Some ladies like to look elegant and put-together, and flipflops are the epitome of sloppiness! Second, because this is a fashion show, Ainsley,” he says in a condescending voice. “You’re new to haute couture so I don’t expect you to understand, but high fashion is not about real life. High fashion is about creating a fantasy. Something that people aspire to, or that moves them from within. Something that is fantastical .”

I stare at him.

“I get it. Fantasy and fantastical have the same root.”

“Yes, exactly,” Justin singsongs. “Besides we want to give off a Victoria’s Secret vibe. You know, sexy and glamorous with big hair and teetering heels. I spoke to Bianca and Mario right before the show, and we see eye to eye when it comes to creative direction. Trust me, Ainsley, the stilettos are crucial to the overall vibe.”

I frown because I understand that image is everything in the world of fashion, but what about being safe? I don’t want to break my neck on the narrow runway. Will I even qualify for worker’s comp? Plus, Justin annoys me sometimes. He’s supposed to be a loving, supportive boyfriend, but instead, he’s more like a controlling micro-manager of all matters large and small.

But I know I should be grateful because Justin West is a charismatic superstar. He’s a rapper turned designer turned celebrity stylist turned renaissance man. His clothing brand, Prowler, has a blockbuster line in collaboration with shoe powerhouse Adirite, and he rakes in millions each year. So yes, as an aspiring model, I know I should consider myself lucky to be seen on Justin’s arm. Even the likes I get on Instagram, and the number of followers I have, skyrocketed after I started appearing with him in public.

But we’ve never slept together, and that’s one of the weird mysteries about our relationship. Yes, he’s my boyfriend. Yes, we do all the expected things in public, like feeding each other food off our plates, and staring dreamily into each other’s eyes while strolling along a beach. But Justin has never touched me in that way, and I’m not sure why. Sometimes, I wonder if he’s gay, but he doesn’t date men either. Not even in secret. Instead, Justin seems happy to hold me out as a “girlfriend,” even if we’re not intimate.

Still, who cares? Again, we work in industries where image is everything, and my boyfriend is an expert at projecting a dominant alpha male vibe, with his brooding blue eyes, dark-as-night hair, and muscular physique. Does it matter if we’ve never actually slept together? In the eyes of the public, I’m dating a powerful male celebrity who’s growly and possessive, with millions at his fingertips.

So I smile again while trying to summon the goddess within.

“Okay. Will do,” I say. “Got it. We’re channeling Victoria’s Secret.”

Still, personally, I feel the designers are reading the era wrong. I thought the Victoria’s Secret look was out, with its big, bouncy hair and emphasis on the color pink. But judging from the excitement outside, this is exactly what the brand wants. La Bianca seeks to project sexy, feminine, and curvy girls who fill out their swimsuits with wide, swinging hips as opposed to thin, scrawny girls with the frames of twelve-year old boys. Again, I should be grateful to be here at all.

“Look alive, Ainsley,” Justin hisses from the corner of his mouth, as I wait in a line of girls waiting to go onstage. “It’s almost your turn.”

I nod in the shadows, my heart beating rapidly. You can do this , the voice in my head encourages. So what if your boyfriend sucks? He’s annoying, but he’s right. Smile, stand tall, and show them what you’re made of because this could be your big break as a plus-size model, Ainsley.

Then, it’s my turn in the spotlight. An assistant beckons to me, pulling the curtain open.

“Ainsley O’Lachlan,” he mutters, checking his clipboard. “It’s all you! Go get ‘em, girl!”

With that, I step out from behind the curtain and into the spotlight. It’s as bad as I thought. I’m temporarily blinded from the bright lights in my face, but the assistant hisses at me again.

“Go, go, go! Go!”

Ah yes. La Bianca is paying me to strut my stuff down the runway in their clothing, so I better get to it. I smile even wider, still unable to see, and begin to stalk down the runway with confidence and verve. It’s so bright, though, that the audience is just a mass of dark shapes as flashes explode at the far end, photographing my curvy form.

I suppose it is flattering in some ways. I grew up a bigger girl, and no amount of dieting and exercise could “fix” it. After my parents died, things got even worse. I ate to soothe my sadness, and ate even more to counter the despair. I ballooned in size until I was considered medically obese, and it wasn’t until my doctor stepped in that things turned around.

“We need to get your sister help,” he told my brother Patrick. My big bro is almost twenty years older than me, and was already an adult when our parents passed. It was natural that he became my guardian, looking out for me as a parent more than a sibling.

“What do you mean?” Patrick asked the doctor, his black brows lowered. “Ainsley looks fine to me.”

The doctor shook his head and clucked, his voice hushed as if that would prevent me from over-hearing.

“No, Ainsley is medically overweight and could stand an intervention. An early intervention,” he stressed. “Your sister is only in her pre-teens, and by teaching good eating habits, as well as the benefits of staying active, we may be able to curb her weight gain.”

“What are you talking about?” my brother demanded. “Of course she’s going to gain weight! She’s still growing.”

“Yes, but the weight is coming on too fast. I can show you growth charts, Mr. O’Lachlan, so you get a better sense of what girls her age weigh, and where Ainsley is on that scale. In fact, our growth charts can be mapped over time, and you’ll see that Ainsley has been gaining too much weight, too fast.”

My brother looked livid, but he managed a curt nod of acknowledgment. I never loved Patrick more than at that moment because my brother’s always been protective of me. He’s always tried to shield me from the unfairness of the world, although of course, he couldn’t shield me from our parents’ death. But my older brother did everything in his power to protect me, and has never stopped although I’m now in my early 20’s. I suppose I’ll always be a little girl in his eyes, needing care, comfort, and oversight, and it’s not so bad. At least Patrick didn’t die too, in the horrific car accident that claimed our parents’ lives.

But the long and the short of it is that when I was a pre-teen, I joined the equivalent of a Weight Watchers Junior in Ireland, with carefully scored “points” for different foods, as well as support meetings and weekly weigh-ins. They sucked, and I hated being there with a room full of girls just as miserable as me because we were allegedly “too fat for society.” Even worse, the program didn’t work for me. I carefully tabulated my food points, did my “quality workouts” as prescribed by the program, and monitored my sleep, breathing, and heart-rate, in addition to my monthly cycle. But all it did was the opposite! If anything, the stress and anxiety from being on a diet made me eat more, and I gained more weight, to the chagrin of my doctor.

This horrific cycle continued for a year or two, and finally, he broached the topic of bariatric surgery.

“Are you shitting me?” Patrick gasped. By now, our family business was doing millions of revenue each year, and Patrick was a rich man. My brother was dressed in a bespoke suit with his dark hair brushed back, and a gleaming watch on his wrist. He definitely attracted more than his share of attention from the nurses out front.

But that was of no concern to my doctor, who merely stroked his his grey mustache thoughtfully.

“I’m afraid so, Mr. O’Lachlan. I’m worried by Ainsley’s continued weight gain—”

“It’s because she’s growing,” my brother bit out.

“Yes, but the weight is coming on too fast and too much still,” the physician said in a patient voice. “The procedure is just something to consider. I’m not saying you have to, or that Ainsley has to, but bariatric surgery is an option to have on the table.”

Again, they were speaking as if I wasn’t right there in the room with them. I think it’s because I was still young then, and they considered me a child, unable to understand the heavy topics at hand. But I decided to take charge of my own life, and my own future, in that very second.

“I’ll do it,” I said in a firm voice. Both my brother and the physician swung around to look at me, their expressions surprised. It’s almost as if they’d forgotten that I was there, sitting on the exam table. But I turned to them with a cool, determined expression on my face.

“It’s fine,” I say. “There have been a lot of studies on bariatric surgery, and I’ve done some research on my own. Of course, I’m interested in hearing more about your thoughts, Dr. Lynstrom, but it seems like something that could benefit me greatly. Plus, I’m sick of all this diet and exercise stuff. It doesn’t work, full stop, and I’m open to the procedure.”

With that, the wheels were set in motion. I was maybe about fifteen at the time, and we settled on a gastric sleeve, which is a weight-loss procedure that involves removing a large portion of the stomach to create a smaller, tube-shaped organ. The remaining stomach is reattached to the patient’s small intestine, and the result is that you can no longer eat as much, and feel satiated after a snack. Sometimes, patients lose so much of their appetite that they become nauseous when eating, or stop eating after only a few bites and become malnourished. It’s crazy, but it happens.

But I was attracted to the procedure not just because of its success rate, but also because it’s laparoscopic, meaning that the surgeon makes a few incisions in your abdomen, and does most of the surgery on your insides via camera. Pretty amazing, right? The best part is that I have no scars, and that the surgery worked! I lost a massive amount of weight within the first year, much to the delight of Dr. Lynstrom.

“I knew you could do it, my girl,” he said in a fatherly voice while nodding with approval. “You were a great candidate for the sleeve, and it’s worked out seamlessly.”

“Well, I do have to watch what I eat,” I said with a wry grin. “Otherwise, I don’t get enough nutrients, and oh – I’m drinking that shake you recommended, and I just ordered the multivitamins you recommended too.”

“Very good,” the physician nodded with approval. “You’re taking care of yourself. Our health is a lifelong journey, Ainsley. We have to take care of our bodies because it’s the only one we get, so why not care for it? Treat it like a temple. I realize that’s borrowed from the world of wellness, but there’s truth to it. Our bodies deserve to be cared for, because without your health, you have nothing.”

I nodded seriously, and from that moment on, I took care of myself mentally, physically, and spiritually. The gastric sleeve was the jumpstart to a new life, and it’s been incredible, although let’s be honest – I’m no skinny-minnie. Instead, I’m a girl with curves who savors them. I like my big breasts, wide hips, and thick thighs. I like that I have an hourglass figure because at least I have a figure. Before, I was shaped a bit like a doughboy, and wore loose, sloppy clothes to hide myself. But now, I wear flattering, form-fitting clothing that emphasizes my luscious new shape.

Even more astonishing, I was scouted to be a plus-size model! Never in a million years did I think this would happen, but it did, and it was a dream come true. I was in line with my besties at the food court one day, when the cashier began talking to me. At first, I thought he was a weirdo who was trying to get my number, and it turned out that he was – because he was also a part-time model scout, and wanted me to come by the agency for some Polaroids.

My friends egged me on, and within months, I was signed on as a legitimate professional model with One Models in Dublin. I was so excited, and couldn’t stop talking about this new chapter in my life.

“Yes, but you’re still going to finish high school,” my brother said in a stern tone over dinner one day. “You know Mom and Dad would be disappointed if you dropped out.”

“Yes, of course!” I burbled. “I wouldn’t even dream of dropping out.”

Nor did I. I graduated with honors from our local high school, and set out to conquer the world of plus-size modeling. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be conquered because modeling is still maddeningly oriented towards the twig thin. Even in this era of “body confidence” and “body acceptance,” it seems that most jobs are geared for the size zero girls. I didn’t even know that a zero existed until I started in the business. Sure, I saw it on clothing tags sometimes, but I figured it was for pre-teens who hadn’t come into their womanly figures yet.

But still, I love my job. I haven’t done too many shoots, but the ones that I did do were fantastic. I loved being the center of attention, with bulbs going off as the photographer shot me from every angle. I loved make-up artists studying my features to bring out the best, while wizards with hair dryers and curling irons put my red tresses up in fantastical shapes. Never have I felt more beautiful and gorgeous than when I was having my picture taken.

So when the opportunity to come to Vegas presented myself, I jumped at it. Vegas is a hot site for plus-size girls. We don’t need to be in Milan, Paris or New York because that’s where the straight size designers do their casting. Instead, a lot of plus-size labels operate from the desert, and when the Bone Agency offered representation, I jumped.

It’s worked out okay. I haven’t been booked for tons of jobs, but I’ve gotten some. Plus, I met Justin West, and his support and encouragement has helped boost my career. My “boyfriend” is a rapper cum artist cum fashion designer cum all-around bad boy. He’s incredibly handsome and photogenic, with his chiseled jawline and broody good looks. But he’s also overbearing and controlling, and it annoys me. I’m a sassy girl at heart so it’s difficult for me to bite back my retorts sometimes, but I do my best. I just remind myself that Justin West is a big deal in the world of fashion and entertainment, and he’s already opened some doors for me.

This job, for example. Justin’s friends with Bianca Moreno, who with her husband Mario, are co-creative designers of La Bianca Swimwear. Justin made sure that I got a look-see when the label was looking to cast its fashion show, and surprise, surprise, I was called back and eventually hired. I know that Justin did it for me. He’s like my fairy godmother – pulling the strings from behind the curtain to make sure that I succeed.

But no matter how famous and handsome he is, he still bugs me sometimes. It’s just the way it is. I’ve been biting my tongue to stay silent in the face of his outrageous comments, but it’s not going to last much longer. The true Ainsley is going to reveal herself, and she’s got a temper befitting my wild red mane.

At the moment, said mane cascades down my back as I smile and strut down the catwalk.

“To the left,” a photographer calls. “Look my way!”

“Looking gorgeous, darlin’,” another one shouts. “This way!”

The commands are cacophonous, hitting my eardrums even above the thundering music. I squint through my thousand watt smile, trying to make out where exactly it is I’m going. One step forward... two steps... sashay, chantée ... just like RuPaul says, then OOPS!

It happens in a split second. One moment I’m swinging my hips like a seductive vixen while prancing down the runway in a see-through bikini, and the next, I’m on my ass skidding towards a dark mass at the edge of the acrylic surface. It’s literally as if I’m hurtling along a giant Slip N’ Slide on my way to bashing myself against a massive rock. Did they oil the floor? Seriously, the speed with which I’m moving is insane, and I scream.

“Oh shit!” I shriek, eyes wide and mouth open. “Oh sheeee --!”

Then, the rock comes to life. I see it in the half second before we collide. It’s actually a dark man. He’s a massive giant, who looks at least seven feet tall with the broad shoulders of a bear and the chest of a warrior. His blue eyes take in my curvy form, and then he opens his arms and catches me right before we collide.

“Ooof,” he grunts as the air is forced out of his chest by our impact.

“ Eeeee !” I shriek right in his face. “Owwwwwweee!”

We tumble over into the audience because I’m not exactly a small girl. But somehow, the man keeps his grip on me except that we’ve changed position. He’s still beneath me, cushioning my fall, but I’ve come upwards and over him so that my pussy’s pressed against his face. Even worse, somehow, my bikini bottoms got pulled to the side while I was doing my little slip n’ slide performance, and his mouth is on my bare cunt.

Oh my god ! I scramble to get up, but it’s not easy when you’re covered in grease and wearing five-inch stilettos. It’s even harder when one of the aforementioned stilettos seems to have broken.

“Oh shit!” I scream again, twisting while trying to pull myself up. But all that happens is that I grind my cunt into the stranger’s face even more, pressing my vag lips against that mobile masculine mouth. Then, something really strange happens. The man parts his lips and licks my pussy. It’s fast, it’s quick, and it’s almost like it didn’t happen, except it did happen. This strange hulk of a man just took the opportunity to lick my cunt!

Before I can fully process what just happened, a fashion assistant appears at my side and helps pull me to my feet.

“Ainsley, are you okay?” Christine gasps, her blonde ponytail messy and face as pale as a sheet. “Should I call an ambulance? That was a real hard fall you took!”

Then, Bianca Moreno appears herself, queenly in a ravishing red gown.

“Security!” she calls while snapping her fingers. “Help this model, will you? My show must continue!”

Justin materializes out of nowhere as well, tall and handsome in his well-cut suit even if I can see disgust in his blue eyes.

“I’ll take over,” he announces before sweeping me into his arms like a damsel in distress. “Let’s get out of here because the show must continue.”

He takes off with me clinging to his shoulders, still shaking from the horrific fall. I’m not injured so much as I’m embarrassed and humiliated. I’m supposed to be a professional model, and yet I just tumbled ass over heels in front of a giant crowd, and the whole thing was caught on camera too!

But even crazier, as I’m carried off in Justin’s arms, my eyes meet those of the dark stranger. He’s at least six and a half feet tall, and gorgeous, with piercing blue eyes, and a knowing smirk on that mobile mouth. Even crazier, he grins at me and licks his lips, as if he’s savoring the taste of my pussy juice on his tongue. Oh my god, this man is so filthy .... but secretly, I already know I want to see him again.