“Oh, absolutely wonderful,” Ian shot at his friend, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Who wouldn’t want to be whored out to a bunch of tech bros for a quick check?” Ian’s friend leaned against the refreshment cart as it passed by his table, trying to contain his laughter.
When Ian first spotted this hospitality opening, he thought it was perfect. A catering gig, the kind of event he’d done a hundred times before. He and his friend both got hired the same day. Weirdly, Ian was asked to come an hour earlier. “Something about your build,” they said vaguely.
The next day, the manager greeted him. “Oh, you are absolutely perfect,” the man trilled, barely giving Ian time to put his bag down before whisking him off toward wardrobe. “You’ve signed all the paperwork, correct?” The man barely let him answer before shoving him into what looked like a futuristic makeup chair. “Wait—wait—what company is this for again? I thought this was catering? What’s with this?” Ian waved a hand at the sterile equipment. “Catering? Oh, honey, no. Your too perfect for this. We’ll just tweak a little chromosomal bond—purely temporary, darling, don’t fret.” The manager spoke quickly as the chair hummed to life. The hum turned into a buzz, then a flash—and when Ian opened his eyes, a ten-out-of-ten knockout stared back from the mirror in disbelief. Big blue eyes. Smooth curves. Breasts he wasn’t believing. “Holy shit,” he muttered, voice high and soft in a way that made his heart stutter.
No sooner had he adjusted to his reflection than a different manager yanked him toward wardrobe. “Here,” she barked, holding out a silky white blouse and the tightest skirt Ian had ever seen. “Your job is simple: posture, smile, and look pretty. That’s it. Got it?” And that’s how he found himself at this table, laughing at bad jokes and batting his lashes when necessary. His friend strolled up during service. “You’re so lucky,” his buddy said, eyeing Ian’s outfit. “You don’t even have to work, just sit there and look good.”
“Sit here and look good?” Ian mocked, snapping a breadstick in two. “I’m basically an accessory at this point.” His friend burst into laughter, ignoring Ian’s glare as he leaned closer. “Hey, the guys at Table Six think you’re hot. You should—” Ian stopped him quickly, “Don’t finish that sentence,” Ian deadpanned, leaning back in his chair and staring down the sweaty tech bros on the far end of the room, all of whom were blatantly staring at him—or rather, the version of him their company paid for. One of them awkwardly waved. Ian groaned, biting into the breadstick.
