It was a simple job with an impressive and (more importantly) easy paycheck.
Really all that was required of him was to spend a few hours of every day in the gym, a steady stride, and a bland and unchanging expression that could be kept firmly in place under bright lights, unrelenting scrutiny, and flashing cameras. There were always those that claimed it also required a certain sense of shamelessness, of overwhelming pride or perhaps a lack of dignity, but that could be said of most jobs.
Wearing a gnome costume for the cameras overseas was far easier than spending nights unloading trailers and building up shipping pallets. Modeling was easy, and while James Haywood may have appreciated something that required a bit more effort on his part, there was something to be said about an “easy” job.
As with any other job it had it’s stresses and responsibilities; red eye flights across oceans were hell no matter that sort of business was on the other end of them, and glaring lights with flashing cameras could produce some absolutely wicked headaches. At the end of the day, however, James felt that a few ridiculous outfits and the cameras were well worth the pay.
It wasn’t the kind of “all day, every day” job that he’d once thought he’d have, but it paid well enough that he could relax at home with his new wife for a week or two between shoots and shows. It may have been more glamorous a job than he had ever expected to have, but it was a comfortable life.
Even if it did have a few responsibilities that were more annoying than had originally been advertised. He didn’t have the same kinds of pressure on him that his female colleagues felt; his frame was just too broad and defined to fit into the androgynous expectation that many male models fell into. Against his better judgement, he had even attempted to starve himself down at one point. It had been a fool’s gamble, but his agency hadn’t wanted to lose his face. Instead they ran in the other direction: buffing him up and presenting him as a power fantasy image. It had worked out spectacularly.
Which meant that some of the events that he was “booked” for were more Chippendale than they were Fashion Week. It could be frustrating at times, but a paycheck was a paycheck, and an after party was far more interesting than a bachelorette.
Or it had been more interesting right up to the point where his agent brought an older man forward to meet him. The agent looked… pained was the easiest description to go with. His shoulders were tense and his smile nervous, his hands fluttering about unusually; almost as though he didn’t quite know what to do with them.
“James, my boy!” the agent was licking his lips, mouth dry, “Allow me to introduce to you one of our company’s most prominent contributors: Laurence Campisi.”
The nervousness had James on edge, but not nearly as much as the smaller man— he couldn’t have possibly been more than an inch over five feet, if he was at all— did. The model kept his runway face in place, offering only a polite but disinterested “Pleasure to meet you, Mister Campisi.”
Campisi smiled a shark’s smile right back at him. He was dressed to the nines in a suit so new it had to have been made that day, every inch of it black. The crimson tie about his neck was the only spot of color in the gray haired man’s wardrobe. Altogether it gave him an ominous air that James could only let wash over him.
He refused to let himself be put off by one old man at a fashion show after party.
It wouldn’t be long until he learned just what a foolish thought that had been.
—————-
[notes: Going by wikipedia the last known boss of the Dallas Crime Family was Joseph Campisi. The FBI was not able to confirm that as far as my 10 minute attempt at research can tell, but the DCF has been considered defunct since his death in 1990. I took a stab at making up a fake relative just for this ‘verse]