Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
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.