Chapter 24 Zara
“What’s wrong?” I ask Chill after she ends the call. She looks concerned but not scared, so that eases some of my fear.
“The Bushrangers left the motel before the guys arrived. Chrome thinks they’re heading this way, so we need to prepare.”
“What do we do?’ I ask, angry at how squeaky I sound.
Chill smiles at me. “You keep doing what you came here to do, and we’ll take care of the other stuff.
Don’t worry. I won’t let them get near you.
Hunter and Rattler have the entrances covered.
Viper and Izzy have their eyes on the men.
Bianca is watching them and knows where to take you if there’s a problem.
You only need to be aware of Bianca and do what she tells you to do. ”
“What about you?” I ask.
“I’ll be watching everyone. You don’t have to worry, we have you covered. Bush and the others are on their way here. You’re safe. I promise.”
Music pulses softly through the loft as models stride down the taped runway, but my mind keeps drifting to the entrances. I force myself to focus on the garment in my hands, smoothing the fabric over the model’s hips and adjusting the neckline the way I envisioned when I sketched it.
Breathe, Zara. Designer mode.
Izzy stands near the makeup table, curling a model’s hair while casually glancing toward the door every few seconds.
Viper waits near the runway with the other models, stretching her shoulders like she’s preparing for the walk, though her eyes track Hunter at the front entrance.
Bianca chats easily with two women near the racks, laughing like this is just another fashion rehearsal.
Anyone else would believe it.
Chill leans against a column, looking completely relaxed—like she’s enjoying the show.
Tony slips up beside me. “What’s going on?” he murmurs.
“Chill says the Bushrangers might be on their way,” I whisper.
His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t step away. If anything, he moves closer.
“I’m staying with you,” he says quietly.
I glance around the room again. Viper, Bianca, and Izzy look so natural, so confident, that my chest loosens a little.
If they’re calm, maybe I can be too.
“Okay,” I mutter, picking up my pins again. “Let’s finish this rehearsal.”
I’ve almost pushed aside all thoughts of the Bushrangers when the distant roar of motorcycles cuts through the music and chatter in the loft.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
I move without thinking, hurrying toward the tall windows that overlook the street. My pulse hammers as I peer down, bracing myself for the sight of unfamiliar bikes.
Chill steps up beside me.
Then she exhales. “Relax.”
Below us, a pack of motorcycles sweeps to the curb, chrome flashing beneath the afternoon light. The Demon Dawgs kuttes are unmistakable.
Relief washes through me so fast my knees almost wobble.
My gaze automatically searches the riders—and finds him.
Bush swings off his bike, tall and solid, his dark kutte stretching across his broad shoulders. Even from up here, I recognize the confident way he moves. My chest tightens in a completely different way now. My body and heart react.
This isn’t just an attraction anymore. Watching him down there, scanning the street as if he owns it, I feel something deeper stirring inside me.
Real feelings.
As if sensing my attention, Bush suddenly glances up. He’s staring right at me. My breath catches. There’s no way he can actually see me through the tinted windows… but for a second it feels like we’re locked on each other.
Beside me, Chill’s phone rings. She answers immediately. “Yeah?”
A pause.
Then she nods. “No, we’re good. Nothing has happened.”
She ends the call and turns to me. “That was Chrome. We can stand down. The Bushrangers aren’t coming here.”
Relief floods through me again.
“The guys are going looking for them,” she adds.
Down below, Bush mounts his bike again alongside Smoke, Arson, and Piston. Engines roar to life, and the group tears away from the curb.
I watch until they disappear down the street.
Then I pull myself away from the window and head back toward the runway. We need to get through the rehearsal. Tomorrow is the big show.
The rehearsal rolls forward like a well-oiled machine.
Models stride down the makeshift runway again and again while Tony and I make last-minute adjustments—pinning hems, smoothing seams, checking how the fabric moves beneath the lights.
Izzy darts between hair and makeup stations, fixing a curl here and sharpening eyeliner there.
Viper and Bianca move through the lineup like they’ve done this their whole lives.
By the final walk-through, the room hums with excitement.
The last model reaches the end of the runway and turns. For a moment, everything is silent.
Then applause breaks out.
Tony whoops beside me, and I laugh, clapping with everyone else as relief and pride rush through me.
The event coordinator beams. “Fantastic work, everyone! Be back here and ready by ten tomorrow morning. The show starts at one, so we’ll run quick touch-ups before doors open.”
People begin gathering their things.
I tidy my station, carefully stacking sketches, pins, and fabric samples into my bag. I’m so focused I don’t notice anyone approaching until a heavy arm drops over my shoulder. I gasp at first, before leaning into the familiar.
“Hey,” I say, smiling as I hug Bush tight. I lean up and kiss him before I can second-guess myself.
His grin flashes. “Miss me?”
“Maybe.”
He chuckles softly. “Come on. I wanna take you to dinner. Just the two of us.”
Butterflies explode in my stomach.
Outside, the evening air is cool. Bush walks me straight to his bike and holds out a helmet.
“For you.”
My excitement bubbles over as I take it.
I’ve ridden on motorcycles before, but this time feels different.
This time I’ll be wrapped around Bush, and isn’t that just a slice of heaven?
I fasten the helmet and climb on behind him.
Wrapping my arms around his waist, I take a deep breath of his familiar scent. Leather and wind with a touch of home.
The motorcycle roars to life beneath me, and a thrill shoots straight through me.
Bush pulls away from the curb, and I instinctively tighten my arms around his waist. The engine vibrates through my legs as we weave into Chicago traffic, the city unfolding around us in streaks of light and color.
Wind rushes past my helmet, tugging loose strands of my hair.
The cool air feels amazing after the warm loft.
I love this.
The freedom of it. The speed. The way the city lights glow against the darkening sky as we pass under streetlamps and neon signs. Cars crawl along beside us, but Bush moves confidently between them, completely in control.
I press a little closer to his back.
For a while, I forgot about the fashion show and the Bushrangers. I forget about everything except the ride and Bush.
Eventually, Bush slows and turns down a quieter street lined with restaurants and storefronts. He pulls to the curb in front of a warmly lit place with elegant lettering across the window.
Vita Gustosa.
The scent of garlic and baked bread drifts through the air as we step inside. A hostess seats us at a small table near the window. Soft lighting glows over white tablecloths, and quiet Italian music hums in the background.
Bush leans back in his chair, studying me. “So how’d rehearsal go?”
I grin. “Honestly? Really well. The models nailed their timing, and the clothes looked amazing under the lights. Even Viper and Bianca looked like they’d been doing runway work for years.”
He chuckles. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
The waiter arrives for drink orders, and once he leaves, Bush asks, “You ready for the main event tomorrow?”
My heart warms instantly.
“You remembered it’s tomorrow.”
“Of course I did.”
The simple fact that he paid attention makes me ridiculously happy.
“Are you coming?” I ask.
His answer is immediate. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Relief and excitement bubble through me.
I tell him more about the rehearsal—the quick changes, the lineup, the way Tony’s design practically stole the room during the final walk. Bush listens like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard.
Even after we order our drinks and dinner, we keep talking about the show. I describe the music cues, the lighting, and the moment Bianca steps onto the runway in my pink dress.
Bush nods thoughtfully. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a big deal.”
“It is,” I admit. “At least… it is to me.”
Before he can respond, a shadow falls across the table.
A man pulls out the empty chair and sits down, as if we invited him to join us.
Bush’s posture stiffens instantly.
“Well,” the man says casually, folding his hands on the table. “This is an interesting surprise.”
Bush’s voice drops a degree colder.
“Marcus.”
“Who is your beautiful companion?” Marcus asks, turning his attention to me.
“Zara Sutherland. Zara, this is Marcus Beraldi. He owns the restaurant.”
“Oh! It’s nice to meet you. Your restaurant is lovely and smells amazing,” I respond in surprise, offering him my hand. I’m nervous because I can’t figure out why Bush seems so tense.
Marcus chuckles. “The pleasure is mine,” he says, lifting my hand to place a soft kiss against my knuckles. He releases my hand and returns his focus to Bush.
“We had visitors today. My father is reaching out to your President about it. They talked with an accent similar to yours. I’m guessing you know them?”
I gasp at his words. Bush isn’t the only one who knows them.