Brent hated his mother's beauty pageant. Ever since leaving his father it had consumed her. Instead of just running a NGO, like every other over-financed divorcee her age, she channeled her time, and his inheritance, into this ridiculous vanity project.
She called it, "promoting good values in young ladies of substance."
He knew it was really just encouraging spoiled little princesses.
Brent had just finished his undergraduate degree in college and his mother had co-opted him into being her general dogsbody for this year's event. She hadn't called the job that, she had given him the title of 'assistant director.' But, you could call someone who picks up after dogs the Emperor of the universe, they still had to pick up shit.
He wasn't even allowed to acknowledge that she was his mother! She said it might create an unfair bias, or encourage the girls to try and curry favor with him, but Brent knew it was really because she didn't want people knowing she had a son in his twenties. God forbid they discover her real age. Fortunately for her, he had kept his Father's surname, while she had reverted back to her maiden name. To the girls he was just some sad loser who couldn't a better job and now had to play nanny to their every bratty teenage whim. It was even starting to feel that way to him.
Why any of the girls would want this made-up title of his mother's was beyond him. Maybe it was the year in a Swiss finishing school, followed by full scholarship to an ivy league college along with a car and a guaranteed entrance into high society. It promised these girls a step up in social class and an opportunity to be a fake, over-medicated divorcee living off her generous alimony for the rest of her life, just like Brent's mother and all her 'friends'.
Now Brent was on another shitty errand for his mother. He had to call the girls for the rehearsal of their individual item on the stage set up in the huge hotel conference room. What it meant was that he had to stand in the corridor of the hotel, like a chump, and knock on a different girl's door every half an hour.
First up was Clarice Calfman from Allton college. She was like all the other girls, over eighteen, over-accomplished, and a senior in high school with an unblemished record. Brent had also noticed over the years, although his mother claimed it was not a beauty pageant, one other similarity in the girls. They were all crazy hot. His mother talked a good game when it came to equality for women, but she knew that the lifeblood of her pageant was public interest and, as she put it, "No one is interested in uggles."
Brent knocked on the door twice. There was no response, but he was used to being ignored. His college buddies had all been jealous that he got to spend his summer surrounded by beautiful teenage girls. Brent, however, had grown up around the pageant and he knew the type of girls the event attracted were too self absorbed to even see past their own reflections. In general they treated him like a personal slave, assistant director title or no.
On one occasion he had been sent to out buy fucking tampons!
Brent was beginning to regret that his humanities major gave him precisely zero other opportunities for internships over the summer.
Brent knocked again, loudly this time. He called, "Miss Calfman? They need you downstairs for your rehearsal slot."
Still no answer. Brent cursed. Most of his buddies had traveled to Europe this summer. They were busy fucking their way across the continent and here he was, a glorified butler.
He heard a click behind him, but continued to pound on the door, "Miss Calfman?" Always "Miss," his mother insisted that if you treat them like proper ladies they would act like proper ladies.
"She's gone downstairs already," a bored voice spoke from the doorway behind him. Brent turned to see the short, curvy figure of Addison Clarke. She was a senior at Middlewood High and represented the fine state of Connecticut. His mother insisted on trying to have every state represented in the competition, just like a Miss America pageant.
"She thinks that if she appears to be extra keen it will give her a better chance at the title," Addison rolled her big, hazel eyes.
Brent wondered again why Addison Clarke was here. She did not seem particularly interested in the title. If he had to describe her personality in one word it would be,"bored." It had to be the very eager looking parents he had seen hanging around her, between events, who had the unrealistic expectations.
Brent, and pretty much everyone else, knew she had virtually no shot at the title. His mother preferred tall, blonde, more athletic girls, with enormous white smiles and personalities so bubbly they could carbonate water. Basically, Brent had realized, his mother was looking for the type of person she thought she was. She was definitely not any of those things, once you scratched at her thin veneer. She was not even a real blonde.
He had heard his mother describe Addison as "that little dumpy brunette." Brent liked the curves, though, her figure was a breath of fresh air in a crowd of barbie dolls. And those lips! Addison had the most perfect set of pouty little pillows framing her mouth.
Brent had seen her wrap them around a lollipop during a break in the early pageant rehearsals, an action his mother had described as "vulgar," and one that had caused Brent to spend the next ten minutes trying to hide his erection behind his clipboard.
"Thanks," he muttered before looking at that same, ever present, clipboard. "Typical," he thought, his mother probably already knew but had not bothered to text or call to save him the trouble.
"While you are here, Ms Clarke, you are expected next, in about 30 minutes."
"Yeah, I kind of knew that already," she unnecessarily opened her arms to highlight the fact that she was wearing a dark pink ball gown with a chiffon skirts. Her bustier was embroidered with patterns of crystal beads. It had a demure cut, but still hinted at a generous bosom beneath. She also wore a sparkling tiara buried deep in her thick brown hair and long white gloves which covered almost the length of her arms.
Brent nodded and turned away, looking at the clipboard again, as if that would give him some way to fill the hour before he had to call the next contestant. It was not even like he could go and relax in his room. His mother would pitch a fit if he "deserted his post," and she always seemed to know when he did. He looked around to see if there was a least a bench he could sit on somewhere.
Addison cleared her throat behind him. "Uh, Mr Wenkler?" She asked
"Mr Wenkler? What fuck was this?" Brent thought. If he was lucky enough to have his existence acknowledged he was usually, "Hey, you!" The politest of the girls might call him Brent. No one called him "Mr Wenkler."
He turned back to Addison. She was posed in an artificial stance of shyness, twisting the toe of her pink pump into the carpet.
"Can you help me with something on my room?"
"Great," Brent thought, "another hairdryer that needed to be rewired or a spider he had to catch. "Still, at least she was being polite about it."
He tapped his pen thoughtfully on his clipboard. "Fuck it, it was not like I have anything better to do," he decided. He stepped closer and she turned sideways in the door to let him pass. It was not easy given the volume of her chiffon skirts.
Once inside the room he looked around to see if there was an obvious problem, but all he saw was a very untidy room. There were clothes all over the floor, biscuit crumbs on the nightstand and the bed looked like it had been the venue for a wrestling match. Brent would quit before he became her maid, if that is what she intended. He was about to spin, and tell her that, when he heard the door behind him shut. He jumped slightly in surprise.
He turned to see what Addison was up to and was only in time to see the short figure moving rapidly towards him in a rustle of skirts. Before he could react she had gripped his arms tightly in her gloved hands and shoved him back. It was slightly embarrassing that such a short girl could so easily drive him backwards, all the way until his butt bumped the sill of the window.
He opened his mouth to protest, but she slapped a small little hand over it. The satin felt cool on his slightly stinging lips. He could only look on as her, suddenly, fierce eyes locked onto his.
