Pop 15
Leo double-checked the glowing screen in his hand. Right address.
Eight p.m. Two hours for this so-called job.
Two thousand dollars for his trouble.
Two grand that would cover his monthly rent in one shot.
He hit call. Tristan picked up almost instantly.
“Where are you, Leo?”
“Standing in front of the Mod Boutique,” Leo said.
“Should I go in or wait for you outside?”
“Just go in. Tell the counter clerk you’re my stylist—she’ll send you upstairs.”
Leo raised an eyebrow even though Tristan couldn’t see it.
“So I’m your stylist now?”
Tristan laughed. “The photographer paid for the complete package,
which apparently includes having my own stylist. That’s where you come in.”
“You’re actually paying me two grand, right?
Just making sure I’m not wasting my time,
because I still need to go back to the nursing home after this.”
“To mop floors?”
Leo froze. “Not even gonna ask how you knew that. But it’s more complicated than that.
So… do you want me to be your pretend stylist or should I ditch out?”
A small pause, then a faint edge of panic in Tristan’s voice.
“No, wait. Just go inside. Please.”
Leo sighed. “Whatever.”
Inside, the boutique’s cool, perfumed air wrapped around Leo like a scented cloud
that whispered, you can’t afford anything here.
The clerk behind the counter froze mid-scroll,
as if someone had just pressed her life on pause.
Her eyes flicked up in slow motion, assessing Leo with the kind of doubtful,
half-questioning smile reserved for strangers who might be famous—or might be lost.
At the mention of “Tristan’s stylist,” she gave a single, deliberate nod,
then pointed toward the staircase as though it led to the gates of heaven.
Her slow smile returned, perfect and plastic, like she’d been trained by mannequins with tenure.
Satisfied she had fulfilled her civic duty, she returned to her phone.
Within seconds, her expression morphed from “gracious sales associate” to “unhinged gladiator.”
She started hissing curses into the screen, hopping up and down like the boutique
floor was lava, tearing at her own hair in clumps—apparently,
she’d missed her anger management class and was making up for it now in a one-woman performance.
Then, without warning, an elderly customer in pearls and a silk scarf
stepped forward and dumped an avalanche of blouses onto the counter.
The clerk’s transformation was instant and miraculous.
In a single breath, she smoothed her hair, straightened her blouse,
and reanimated her slow-motion, mannequin smile—serene, gentle,
and utterly fake, as if the meltdown seconds earlier had been a trick of the boutique lighting.
Upstairs, Leo took one step into the softly lit studio—then immediately spun on his heel.
Tristan stood in the middle of the room in nothing but white briefs.
“What?” Tristan teased, utterly unbothered.
“You’re my stylist, so you’re supposed to be comfortable seeing me with or without anything.”
“Fine,” Leo said flatly.
His eyes, however, betrayed him—trailing briefly down the perfect planes of Tristan’s chest,
over the ridges of his abs.
“Careful, kid,” Tristan murmured with a crooked grin. “I might melt.”
Leo blinked, snapped his gaze away, and sat where someone
had just pressed a glass of chilled white wine into his hand.
“Remember to give a thumbs up or down, so I’ll know the best outfits.”
Tristan excitedly smiled at Leo who starts to show apprehension.
And then, in the blink of an eye, the entire studio erupted into
a professional photo shoot—on steroids.
A boutique assistant wheeled in a sleek rack of shirts, pants, and ties.
Another clerk adjusted the lighting until the space looked
like something out of a fashion magazine. The ambiance was pure luxury.
The photographer and crew swept in, he started commanding and controlling the room,
minutes later, his camera starts clicking.
Tristan disappeared into a side room,
only to re-emerge moments later in an all-khaki suit with a fuchsia tie.
He struck a pose like he’d just invented the concept of “model.”
Leo sipped his wine, then gave him a slow, exaggerated thumbs down.
“Harsh,” Tristan said with mock injury, before vanishing behind the curtain again.
Next came an all-blue ensemble—baby blue jacket, navy pants. Tristan twirled dramatically.
Leo tilted his head, then wobbled his hand side to side.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tristan demanded.
“It means you look like a groomsman at a yacht wedding.”
“So nautical chic is a no. Fine.”
He disappeared once more.
When he returned, it was in a sleek black tux, crisp white shirt,
and perfectly tied bow tie. Sunglasses completed the look, along with a smoldering, slow smile.
Leo couldn’t help himself—he gave a measured thumbs up.
“Okay, yeah. Now you look expensive.”
“Baby,” Tristan said, adjusting his cuffs, “I am expensive.”
The photographer kept snapping as Tristan threw in one last exaggerated smirk for the camera.
A few minutes later, with the shoot wrapped,
Tristan kissed the photographer’s cheek, bid the crew goodbye,
and handed Leo a stack of shopping bags.
“You actually bought all this?” Leo asked.
“Freebies,” Tristan said, already moving toward the stairs.
“Of course. And where exactly are you going that requires this level of fashion drama?”
“You mean we’re going,” Tristan corrected.
“You’re taking me?”
Before Leo can react, Tristan suddenly reached inside his pocket and dropped
Two grand.
Cash.
“Now, I officially own you for the night”
Leo smirked, stepping closer. “Really? Own me?”
Tristan leaned in just enough to make it a game. “Mm-hmm. Full rights and privileges.”
The air between them thickened for a beat—then Leo shoved one of the bags into Tristan’s chest.
“Then carry your own damn bags.”
Leo started walking. Tristan followed, grinning.
They’d barely reached the door when Leo’s eyes fell on one of the bags—a tuxedo bag.
The very same tux Tristan had worn in the shoot.
“Wait… you got this for me?”
Tristan slid his sunglasses into place and smirked.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I just like my assistant looking sharp.”
Leo gave him a look that was equal parts suspicion and amusement.
“Now hurry up,” Tristan said, striding ahead. “We have places to be.”
