“My god, you’re a goddess,” Tony says in awe as he looks Bianca up and down. “Wouldn’t she be gorgeous in that hot pink number?”
I see Rattler and Randy stiffen when Tony first spoke, but they relax quickly. Tony notices and waves them off. “I’m notinterested in your girl like that. I’d be more interested in either of you, but I see that’s a lost cause.”
Rattler and Randy grin at him.
“You’re a couple of weeks too late,” Viper chimes in, drawing Tony’s attention.
“And you! Look at that blonde hair and those eyes. She’d be glorious in that aqua blue number of yours. Are you our new models?”
“I am, if that helps us protect you both,” Viper says. “That’s why we’re here. Chrome wanted our double x’s to help us fit in. However, Bianca isn’t part of the detail.”
“No! She has to be. She’s exactly what my piece needs. Please?” Tony begs.
Bianca shrugs. “I can help out. I may not be able to fight, but I can shoot a gun.”
“Not happening,” Rattler says with a laugh, but he shares a look with Randy before returning his gaze to Bianca. “However, if you want to help, we could use someone on the inside whose job it is to get Zara and Tony to safety if something happens. That would let Viper and Chill focus on the source of the attack.”
“I can do that,” Bianca says with a grin. “I want to help.”
CHAPTER 17: BUSH
Having Chill and the others in Chicago relieves some of the tension I’ve been carrying. Now that the Bushrangers know my location, I need to watch my back. However, my priority is to protect Zara. The walls were closing in, and I was getting desperate. Chrome made the right call, requesting help from Puma. Chill and Viper are exactly what we need. Bianca is a nice surprise. Knowing that if all hell breaks loose, her focus will be on getting Zara to safety relieves some of my fear.
I stretch out in one of the scarred wooden chairs at the long table in the clubhouse, Zara tucked against my side, her thigh pressed to mine. The remnants of dinner—empty burger baskets, grease-stained paper, a few abandoned fries—are shoved to the center. Beer bottles sweat in our hands. The jukebox hums low in the background, something classic rock and familiar.
Across from us, Tony is in full-on spazz mode, gesturing with his bottle like he’s conducting an orchestra.
“We have so much to do tomorrow,” he says. “We need to get Viper and Bianca registered as models right away. Luckily, tomorrow is when we meet with all the models and get them fitted with the designs they’ll be wearing in the show.”
“How many designs will we be wearing?” Bianca asks. “I’ve never walked a runway before. Maybe we should practice?” She looks at Viper for her input.
“I’ve never walked a runway, either,” Viper says with a shrug. “But I’ve been on stage before. We should practice. I elect Tony as our instructor.”
Tony beams at her as he stands. “It will be my pleasure!” Tony stands and claps his hands like he’s running a damn boot camp. “Move, move—clear it out. I need a straight line. No, straighter than that. Hunter, you’re not furniture—shift.”
Grumbling bikers drag chairs and tables aside, boots scraping across concrete. Arson mutters something about this being the dumbest thing he’s ever seen, but he still helps. Within minutes, the common room’s got a makeshift runway cutting right through the middle.
I lean back in my chair, beer in hand, watching the circus.
Tony steps into the center, all sharp focus and city polish. “Posture first. Shoulders back. Core tight. You don’t stomp—you glide.”
The cloak of Viper’s previous life as a showgirl flows over her, transforming her from brutal ass-kicker to supermodel. The collective gasp of several bikers watching the show tells me that they see it, too. Bianca tries to mimic Viper, but she appears too stiff.
“Relax, Bianca,” Tony encourages her. “Don’t copy Viper. She’s not you. You are a different beast. You’re a panther stalking your prey.”
Bianca considers his words as she shakes her arms to loosen the tension. Then, she prowls. That’s the only way to describe it. With her chin up and a deadly expression, she glides to the end of the makeshift runway before retreating.
Tony claps his hands in glee. “Absolutely stunning. You’re both amazing. This is going to be the best fashion show ever.”
They continue to practice while the rest of us watch.
Chrome leans back in his chair at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes sharp but amused. “What time do you need them there?”
“Eight,” Zara says. “The loft opens at seven-thirty for designers. We’ll be there most of the day. Fittings start at nine. Rehearsals are in the afternoon. Tony and I will basically live there until show night.” She doesn’t look overwhelmed. She looks lit up.
That’s what gets me.
The clubhouse isn’t exactly a gentle place. It’s loud, rough around the edges, filled with patched men and strong women who don’t tolerate weakness. But she fits here like she was built for both worlds—high fashion lofts and biker bars with concrete floors.
