Chapter 8 Zara
The next morning, I woke confused. It takes me a full five minutes before I remember where I am and why. Rolling out of bed, I grab a change of clothes and duck into the bathroom.
The water beats against my shoulders, hot enough to steam the mirrors and loosen the knot between my shoulder blades.
The Demon Dawgs’ clubhouse shower isn’t fancy—simple grout and tile, adequate water pressure, a faint smell of bleach—but it does the job.
I close my eyes and let my head tip forward, already running through the day like a checklist I can’t afford to mess up.
Fashion Week. The words still don’t feel real.
I need to get to the hotel first. Meet Tony in the lobby so we can hook up before heading to the venue.
He’ll want reassurance—he always does—even though he’s as prepared as anyone I know.
I make a mental note to remind him to bring the garment bags with the backup pieces.
One broken zipper, one torn seam, and you’re grateful you planned for disaster.
I rinse the shampoo out of my hair and think about the upcoming meeting with the event coordinator.
Be early. Be polite. Don’t look like a deer in headlights.
We’ll walk the space, confirm the order of looks, and double-check call times.
I’ll need to introduce myself to the models, make sure they know which pieces are mine, which shoes go with which pieces, and how the fabric is meant to sit on their bodies.
I’ve learned the hard way that assumptions create disasters.
Conditioner slicks through my fingers as I think about the fittings.
Final pin checks. Steam out wrinkles. Photograph every look for reference in case something gets swapped at the last minute.
Pack the emergency kit—safety pins, fashion tape, double-sided tape, lint rollers, stain remover, scissors, needle, and thread in every neutral color.
I should text Tony to confirm he grabbed the shoe labels.
After the event preview, there are meetings.
Designers who’ve reached out, curious about my work.
Some are serious. Some are just fishing.
I’ll need to be sharp either way. Business cards are ready.
Portfolio loaded on my tablet. Practice the calm, confident version of my story instead of the one that reveals how surprised I am to be here.
The water cools slightly as someone elsewhere in the clubhouse turns on a tap.
I open my eyes and breathe, grounding myself.
This isn’t just about the show. It’s about visibility.
About proving I can handle the pressure, the pace, the chaos backstage without falling apart.
This is the most important week of my life. I can’t screw it up.
I shut off the water and step onto the mat, wrapping a towel around my hair. My phone is waiting on the counter, screen dark but heavy with responsibility. There will be messages. Questions. Last-minute changes. There always are.
I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror—bare-faced, focused, steady. Nervous, yeah. Terrified, maybe. But ready.
Today is only the first day.
After I get dressed, I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob.
Should I head downstairs by myself? What will I find when I get down there?
I’ve read stories about what goes on in MC clubhouses.
I could go downstairs and find myself surrounded by naked men and women sleeping off the previous night’s party.
What if I Bush is down there? I take two deep breaths as I think about finding Bush naked with a girl draped over him.
I squeak in surprise when someone pounds on my door. I yank it open to find a wide-eyed Bush on the other side.
“Were you standing on the other side?” he asks.
I feel myself flush with embarrassment. “Yeah, I was. I was debating on going downstairs.’
He gives me a peculiar look, but offers me his hand. I take it.
“I wouldn’t have let you go downstairs alone. Not that you’d be in any danger, but I know the clubhouse can be intimidating for someone not used to the life.”
When we reach the bottom floor, I see several people sitting at tables eating.
Thankfully, they are all clothed. I turn my head when I hear someone call out to Bush.
Chrome is sitting at a table with Cicely on his lap.
He’s feeding her and himself from the plate piled high with food in front of him.
“We’ll be right there,” Bush calls out before ushering me into the kitchen.
Three women are inside, each one manning an appliance.
One is at the stove, cooking scrambled eggs and sausage.
The other is at the oven, drawing out a cookie sheet with hash browns and bacon sizzling.
The third is working the toaster and the coffee maker.
Each of the girls is wearing cut-off jeans and the tiniest tank tops I’ve ever seen.
“Hey, Bush, are you hungry?” the one at the stove asks with a wide smile.
“Starved,” he replies.
“Well, if you wait a few minutes, I’ll be done with this batch, and you can eat me,” she says with a flirty grin.
I stumble at her words. Bush chuckles as he wraps his arm around my waist to settle me.
“Thanks for the offer, Crystal, but I think I’ll just settle for eggs, hash browns, and sausage. Throw on a piece of toast, Megan.” He turns to me. “What do you want?”
“Um, just eggs and bacon. Maybe a piece of toast. And coffee. I’m desperate for some coffee.”
“You got it.”
The women pass the plates around among themselves as they pile the food on. The one called Crystal stares at me as she works. I feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but luckily, they work quickly. Bush takes both our plates and gestures for me to precede him out of the kitchen.
“We’ll sit with Chrome,” Bush says as he directs me to their table. Bush sets my plate down, then holds the chair out for me.
“Good morning, Zara,” Chrome says. “How did you sleep?”
“Good. I was exhausted,” I say, smiling at him and Cicely. “Thank you for letting me stay here last night.”
“You’re welcome. You can stay here as long as you want.”
I shake my head. “I need to check into the hotel. The next week is going to be insane, and I need to be close to the action.” I notice the look Bush and Chrome share. “What?”
Bush opens his mouth, but then closes it again. I can tell he’s searching for the right words, but is having difficulty. “Just tell me.”
“We went to the hotel and confronted Menace,” Chrome starts, drawing my attention from Bush. “We don’t yet know why the Bushrangers are here. They didn’t mention Bush, and we know they were asking for you.”
I frown as I consider his statement. “You think they’re here for me? Why would they be here for me? What would they want with me?”
“We don’t know, but we’re trying to figure it out,” Bush says, tapping his fork on my plate. “You need to eat before it gets cold. You’ll need the fuel today.”
My stomach roils at the thought of eating, but he’s right. I need the fuel, so I lift the fork, but I ask a question before I shovel food into my mouth. “What did he say?”
Chrome gives me the highlights. I’m certain he isn’t telling me everything, but what he says is enough.
“It sounds like Menace thinks I have something that belongs to him. What do they think I have?”
“We don’t know. Not yet. But we have two ideas. Either they want the money your father refused to pay, or they want you.”
“Me? They want me for what?” I take a bite of toast as I consider the situation. “Do they want to use me as bait or something?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think that’s it,” Bush says.
He stares at me as if he’s trying to decide what to say.
“You don’t know the full reason why I told your dad to get you both out of town.
The real reason why I turned on the Bushrangers.
They wanted to make an example out of your father when he refused to pay them extortion money. ”
“They were going to kill my father?” I ask, believing that would be the type of example they’d set.
“No. Well, maybe, eventually, they would have killed him, but that wasn’t the plan. The plan was to grab you. They were going to hurt your father by hurting you.”
“They planned to kill me?” I ask in a whisper.
“Worse. They planned to rape you. They were going to run a train on you.”
“A train?” I ask, but I don’t need him to explain. I get what he’s saying. Clasping my hand over my mouth, I jump up and look widely about.
Cicely must realize what I need, because she hops up, too, grabs my arm, and tugs me toward the hallway. “This way,” she says as she leads me to the restroom. I burst into the stall and fall to my knees as every morsel I ate comes spewing back up.