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)
But Justin’s convinced this is the outfit for me. Or rather for “us,” seeing how he wants to make an impact on the arrivals carpet.
“You look good,” he says, finally turning to study me. “Here, these shoes will complete the outfit.” He hands me a pair of four inch acrylic stripper heels, and my heart sinks. Damn, I’m going to resemble a prostitute tonight, which is not what I want, but I step into them slowly, finding my balance atop the skyscraper-like heels.
“Perfect,” Justin hums, subtly adjusting the décolletage of my “dress” so that it’s even. His blue eyes sweep over my narrow waist, barely covered cunt, and thick thighs. “You look beautiful, Ainsley. You’re just the woman a celebrity like me needs on his arm. We need to be impactful,” he emphasizes, his blue eyes boring into mine. “No one wants to see another woman in an Oscar’s ballgown. That shit is dull.”
“No, I didn’t say I wanted to wear a ballgown!” I protest feebly. “I just don’t need dress like this,” I gesture at my barely clad figure. “I mean, I realize this is a swimsuit line, but I’m barely wearing anything right now.”
“Naked dresses are in vogue days,” Justin says carelessly while helping me into a black fur coat that blessedly covers my curves, providing a degree of security. “I assure you Julia Fox is going to show up in something even crazier. Do you want her to outdo us?”
I stare at him.
“The whole thing is exactly what we don’t want. We don’t want to distract from Bianca and her clothing line. Julia shouldn’t either because this is Bianca’s night.”
Justin shrugs.
“But I’m a globally famous rap superstar,” he says. “Besides, I’ll be with you the entire time, baby. I’m not going to make you walk the arrivals carpet on your own. And I plan on making my own entrance too.”
I stare at him.
“I doubt anything could outdo this dress,” is my dry remark.
Justin smirks, the dimple in his cheek showing itself.
“No, it can be outdone,” he says in a sly tone. Then, he reaches for a black coat from a nearby rolling rack before pulling it on over his broad shoulders. He turns, and to my horror, “White Lives Matter” is spelled out in rhinestones on his coat.
“See?” he smirks. “You can be outdone.”
I gasp, the blood draining from my face.
“No,” I whisper. “Please, Justin. Don’t wear that.”
My boyfriend merely smirks again.
“Why, are you offended Ainsley? You shouldn’t be. White lives do matter.”
I sputter because how can I explain this to my boyfriend? It seems almost impossible, and yet I have to try.
“Justin, that slogan is a reaction to the BLM movement. It’s been adopted and promoted by white supremacist groups and sympathizers. It’s got MAGA hate written all over it.”
Justin smirks again.
“That’s how you choose to see it, but it’s not how I choose to see it. And with the re-election of our latest, greatest President, I think this coat is apt. I think it’s absolutely speaking for how many Americans feel at the current moment, and I’m proud to be their standard-bearer. WLM forever.”
Oh my god, this is even worse than I thought.
“No,” I breathe. “Please don’t. I’m begging you. I will wear this naked dress however many times you want, Justin, but I’m begging you to take off that coat. It’s a political statement and we don’t need that at a fashion show!”
“Yes, we do,” Justin smirks again. “Make America Great Again. Hold the blue line. Didn’t AOC wear a gown spray-painted with “Tax The Rich” to the Met Gala? If that bitch can wear something so crude to a black tie event, then I can certainly wear this. Besides, fucking AOC is a politician who’s supposed to be legislating and shit like that, but instead she’s going to the Met gala and hobnobbing with said rich people that she purportedly wants to tax! Isn’t that fucking ironic?”
“Justin,” I say in a careful tone. “I’m not going to respond to that because this isn’t the time to debate Ms. Ocasio-Cortez’s political motives nor her publicity stunts—”
My boyfriend stares at me.
“So you acknowledge her dress was a political stunt.”
I exhale slowly, trying to keep my blood pressure in check.
“Of course I do,” I respond in an even tone. “All politicians pull stunts—”
“As do rap superstars like myself,” Justin finishes before picking up his phone. “Our ride is here, Ainsley. Are you ready?” he asks, one black brow quirked. “Ready to get off your high horse, sweetheart? The Dems suffered a crushing defeat in the recent election, so I think it’s time to stop with the sanctimonious lecturing, don’t you agree?”
Then, my boyfriend is out the door with the horrific jacket still on his back. My stomach drops to my feet because I don’t want to attend the after party anymore ... and yet I know I have to show my face.