your first day

The drive down from Torrance took forty minutes if you counted the stop-and-go on the 405. You had your dad’s hand-me-down Corolla, AC sputtering, the cracked vinyl wheel warming under your palms as you exited toward Long Beach. The freeway spit you out into a blur of fast-food signs, palm-tree medians, and sudden glimpses of the ocean flashing between condos. By the time you hit Ocean Boulevard, the Corolla felt absurdly out of place.

Her house didn’t blend—it announced itself. A slick, modern two-story of white stucco and dark trim, all glassy lines and precision landscaping. A row of palm trees framed the driveway like runway lights, their shadows stretching across the hood of your car as you pulled up. The neighbors’ bungalows and weathered duplexes only made the place stand out more, like a reality-show set dropped onto a normal street.

You parked at the curb, checking your reflection in the mirror—hair frizzed from the useless AC, shirt damp at the collar. Not exactly entourage material. Slinging your backpack over one shoulder, you walked the short path past sculpted succulents and rang the oversized brushed-steel doorbell.

The door flew open and Tammy Barnes appeared, framed in sunlight like she had rehearsed the moment.

She wasn’t tall—five-three at most—but presence made her seem larger than life. Platinum-blonde waves bounced off bronzed shoulders, her violet bandage dress hugging every contour, neckline plunging in a way that made your throat go dry. Her skin was a perfect glow of tan and shimmer, her makeup a flawless mask of cheekbones, lashes, and gloss. She leaned on the doorframe, nude stilettos tipping her hips forward, one manicured hand holding a quilted designer tote.

“Ohhh, Timmy!” she sang in Tammy’s voice—light, honeyed, a reality-star trill. Then came the laugh, that same Randall cadence buried underneath, and your scalp tingled. “Driving yourself? Love it. Very assistant-on-a-budget. Jeans and sneakers though? Mmm, cute. Totally internship chic.”

You blinked, tugging your backpack strap higher. “I thought this was gonna be… you know. Low-key. Errands. Groceries or something.”

Her lips quirked into a glossy smirk. She gave you a head-to-toe once-over, slow and deliberate, like she was inspecting an outfit choice on set. “Sweetie, errands are groceries. My groceries just happen to be manicures, meetings with producers, and pulling looks from a stylist’s rack before sunset. Did you really think I’d waste a Monday in sweats?”

She spun on her heels, stilettos clicking across the marble entry as she tossed her tote onto a glass console. “Shoes off, rule number one. You follow my vibe, not the other way around.”

You hesitated, then stepped out of your sneakers, socks squeaking on the glossy floor as you trailed after her into a living room that was all ocean light and mirrored surfaces. White couches, chrome accents, orchids perched like props, the faint scent of coconut candle filling the air.

Tammy turned on a dime, blonde hair flipping over her shoulder as she fixed you with those sharp, camera-ready eyes. “So, Timmy,” she purred, “are you ready for your glamorous new career? Because once we step out that door, you’re not some kid from Torrance anymore. You’re Tammy Barnes’ assistant. And that,” she drew out the pause, letting it dangle, “is a role.”