Chapter 4
chapter four
Denali
Keeping up 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 really isn't human, with how much he seems to cram in a single day. Hell, I don't even see lunch penciled 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 is funny?"
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."
Thank you, Captain Obvious. "I'm not an assistant, either, but here we are."
His shrug is dismissive. "I suppose you can't do any worse than these atrocious jeans."
We both chuckle at that, and I abandon my tablet to the seat of the chair I vacate and make my way to the racks.
Exactly ten minutes of hunting later, I've put together a decent-sized pile of options for him to pick from.
He eyes some of it with distaste, which is fair, because we can't all like all the fashion circling at any given time, but I watch him disappear into the dressing room with a strange sense of hope fluttering in my chest. Maybe I've got more talents than I initially thought.
Take that, mom. Spending so much time on social media actually paid off after all.
He comes out of the dressing room wearing two completely different vibes on his upper and lower halves, and I realize that this man has likely never once in his life picked out his own clothes in adulthood.
"Quick question," I ask, emboldened by this false sense of security I have in knowing he needs me—and there's likely not another soul on this planet willing to work with him on such short notice. "Are you by any chance colorblind?"
He looks like I've slapped him in the face with a rotting tuna fish. "Colorblind?" That stony stare turns down on his clothes, and he frowns. "Is there something wrong? I wore these colors when I originally debuted."
Again with the terrible stylists. They're rampant in the kpop industry, even abroad. "I'm not touching that with a twenty-foot pole, sir. Just know that's not a matching set of colors, and we're going to file that away under never doing that again."
He's still protesting quietly as I shove him into the dressing room and follow after him, rifling through the stack of clothes I gave him until I find the crop top he was wearing earlier. I then search around and spot the black slacks I had them pull off a mannequin and shove them at him.
"Here. Put this on."
I leave him standing there like a mannequin himself as I leave the dressing room and search out my tablet again, planning to pick up where I left off.
Ironically enough, it's on a section of the list called Incompetence and Slacking: Things Kobayashi Does Not Tolerate.
"Oh, this oughta be good," I mutter, sliding my finger down the scroll bar to take in the notes, line by line.
I make it through this section and another section called How To Train The Dragon To Listen which is really just this guy complaining that Kai never listened to a word he said, before someone clearing their throat grabs my attention.
"I feel like a teenager."
I turn around and instantly realize this was a mistake.
"You look like you took years off your age."
It's not flattery or a lie. It's the truth.
The crop top accentuates his tiny, toned waist, while still clinging to the slight frame he carries around, and the cut of the sleeves makes him look like he's got more muscle than he actually does.
The pants are supposed to hang low on his hips, but he's tugged them up and cinched them to stay there.
Not that it looks bad, but it could look better.
"Hmmm," I muse, hand on my chin as I circle him to buy myself time. "Not bad, actually. The point is to make you look young and hip and popular. At least, that's what your concept says, in the memo the company sent to your last assistant."
"I don't like it. It's not my style." He tugs at the shirt, clearly displeased with how it clings to his torso, and it snaps back into place when he releases it. "Why can't my concept be sophisticated and mature?"
I cock a brow at his ridiculous man-tantrum. "I'm not the company. Take it up with them." If you can find time in your packed fucking schedule. "I'm just the assistant."
His lips split in a grin. "Why don't you shoot them an email for me, Miss Stone? Since, as you pointed out, you're the assistant here."
He's got me in my own trap. "Damn." Foiled by my own words. "I wonder who exactly is in charge of that shit?"
He shrugs. "I think it's the artist management team, or maybe the producers. I don't know, not my job to know."
Somehow, I seriously doubt this controlling taskmaster has no idea who to reach out to.
He's just making things hard on me to challenge me, see if I can handle it.
I'm not letting him win this one. I swore I'd give it my all, and dammit, I have to make it to the finish line so I can get that bonus.
If he wants to fire me after that five-day prelim period, he's more than welcome to.
Well, as long as I can find work for someone else soon after. Surely putting this company on my resumé will do a little to undo the damage the bastard did to my reputation.
"Fine," I grit out through my teeth, "I'll figure it out."
I turn around and start to storm over to where my tablet awaits, hoping Arista Simmons can direct me to the person in charge of this asshole's comeback plans, when—
"Hey, listen, if it's too much, I can find someone else."
I know he didn't just tell me he'd replace me on day one.
I spin around, spitting mad and ready to throw hands, when I realize he's on the phone. I didn't even hear him answer it, but I feel sheepish that I assumed he was addressing me with his harsh words.
Not that the idea was unfounded. But still, I should know a little bit about making assumptions, and incorrect ones at that.
He sees me watching him and sighs, rolling his eyes as he waves me over and eyes himself in the mirror, turning this way and that as the look clearly grows on him.
I go where I'm beckoned, because that's what a good assistant does. I have no idea what he wants, but it feels like the right thing to do as he clearly bickers with the person on the other end of the call.
"I don't care what it takes, you tell him I'm not going.
They can pick another event for me to make a grand appearance at.
Surely they won't have to change that much around to make it work.
We haven't even solidified the release schedule yet.
I know damn well it's not going to be that big of an inconvenience to the company to lose out on the one red carpet walk. "
He reaches out when I'm close enough and grabs the tablet from my hands, swiping it open with a flourish.
I watch carefully as he slings the contacts around and stops midway through the list, selecting one titled 'talent coordination department'.
He hands it back and covers the receiver of his cell, effectively silencing his own conversation to talk to me.
"That's who you want. Just request a meeting in person for us.
I have a feeling they're not the type to make decisions or meet demands over the phone.
" He looks me up and down for a minute, keeping the person on the other end of the line in suspense while he does .
. . whatever this is. "Thank you, by the way. "
And just like that, he's turning around and returning to his call.
I nod and get to work, listening discreetly as he argues with a person I suddenly feel a little sorry for. He's a handful, that's for sure, but from what I gathered in his bio, and in the notes left to me, he might be difficult, but he's damn good. He's got pull.
Everyone has a dark secret or two in their past, though. And though I've only just met him, I find myself wondering what secrets Kai Kobayashi is hiding.
What is it nobody else knows about you, Mister Perfect?
I send off the email and settle into the chair, watching him pace angrily as I wave off the store attendants who've inched nearer in the hopes we might make a purchase and get the fuck out, probably.
Secret baby? Nah, not the type.
Malicious ex-girlfriend? Ex-boyfriend? Secretly gay?
No, that sort of thing leaves a trail online. It leaves evidence.
Criminal background?
No. There's no way. He's too clean, too demanding. I can't see him getting involved with something criminal in the least. When the hell would he have time?
That reminds me . . .
I open up the scheduler app that links to his personal phone and mine, and delete the entry titled meditation block and fill it in with Lunch instead.
And then, without a second thought to the matter, I book a table for two at a healthy restaurant down the road that I frequent quite often when I've got the funds for it.
I'm sure Kai will like it. There's no seafood to be found, and the food is in line with the ridiculous diets these idols participate in nowadays.
And then I go back to contemplating what, exactly, makes Kai Kobayashi human.
That's a piece of the puzzle I might never know. But damn, do I want to.
I don't even know why.