Chapter 7
DAISY
"Stop hovering," I muttered to Ghost, who stood exactly three feet behind me, tracking my every movement as I photographed Wrench showing a customer the custom work on a restored Harley.
"I'm supervising," he corrected, voice low. "As instructed."
"You're making everyone nervous," I countered, adjusting my lens. "Including me."
Three days into our arrangement, and Ghost had maintained his position as human surveillance camera. Never more than five feet away. Always watching. Always tense.
It was like trying to create authentic content with a security algorithm breathing down my neck.
"Can you ask Wrench to angle the bike toward the light?" I requested, reviewing the shots I'd taken.
Instead of relaying my question, Ghost stepped closer to view my camera screen. Close enough that I caught his scent—something clean and surprisingly subtle. Not cologne. Maybe just soap and laundry detergent.
"Those look adequate," he stated, apparently satisfied with the images.
"Adequate isn't good enough," I replied, moving to a different angle. "I need warmth. Connection. Something that shows the passion behind the work."
Ghost's expression suggested I was speaking a foreign language.
The garage door opened, and Sophie walked in with a teenage boy who looked vaguely familiar. The kid's eyes lit up at the sight of all the motorcycles.
"Aaron!" Wrench called, grinning. "Come check this out, kid."
"Aaron's my nephew," Sophie explained to the customer she was walking in with. "Wrench is teaching him basic maintenance. Kid's a natural."
I watched as Wrench motioned the teen over, showing him something under the fuel tank. The boy's expression was a perfect mix of concentration and excitement. Wrench's usual gruff demeanor softened as he explained each component, his massive hands surprisingly gentle with the delicate parts.
It was perfect. Authentic. Exactly the kind of human moment the sponsorship company wanted.
I raised my camera, capturing a series of shots as they worked together.
"Delete those," Ghost said immediately behind me.
I turned, surprised by his sharp tone. "Why? It's just Wrench teaching a kid about motorcycles. It's wholesome content."
"It's a minor in a club space," Ghost countered. "Security risk."
"It's Sophie's nephew learning a trade skill from a positive male role model," I argued. "In the legitimate business portion of your operation. During regular business hours."
Ghost's jaw tightened. "Minors are off-limits."
"We can get permission," I suggested. "I'll have Sophie sign a release. Blur the kid's face if necessary."
Ghost crossed his arms, immovable. "No."
This was the pattern. Every genuine moment I found, Ghost found a security objection. Every authentic connection I tried to capture, he deemed too revealing. It was like trying to photograph life through bulletproof glass.
"Look," I said, lowering my voice. "I understand your concerns. I do. But this content needs humanity to work. The whole point is showing that Broken Throttle is more than what people assume about motorcycle clubs."
"The assumption that we're dangerous exists for a reason," Ghost replied, his own voice equally low. "It's protection. Keeps civilians safe. Keeps the club safe."
"But you're trying to change that perception now, right? With the literacy center? The community outreach?"
Ghost's expression remained impassive, but something flickered in his eyes. Conflict, maybe.
"Limited perception adjustment," he finally conceded. "Controlled narrative."
"Then let me help create that narrative," I pressed. "These shots of Wrench teaching Aaron? They're perfect for showing that Broken Throttle is about skills, mentorship, community. Not just whatever people think you are."
For a moment, I thought he might agree. Then his walls slammed back into place.
"Find different content," he stated flatly. "Nothing with minors."
I bit back my frustration. "Fine. But I'm keeping these until we talk to Steel. He makes the final call on club image, right?"
Ghost didn't respond, which I took as reluctant acknowledgment.
My phone buzzed with a medication reminder for Dad. Time for his afternoon pills.
Ghost's eyes flicked to my screen, noting the alert before I could turn it away.
"You need to go?" he asked, his tone shifting slightly.
The question caught me off guard. Almost like normal human concern.
"No," I replied. "Dad's nurse is with him today. Just a reminder to call and check."
Ghost nodded once, then motioned toward the back of the garage. "Diesel's customizing a vintage Indian. Might be acceptable content."
It was as close to a compromise as I was likely to get.
GHOST
I watched Daisy work from my position near the wall. Three days of this arrangement, and I still wasn't comfortable with her presence in club spaces. With her camera capturing images I couldn't fully control once they left the clubhouse.
But I had to admit—reluctantly—that she knew what she was doing.
She'd established easy rapport with most of the brothers. Had Diesel explaining custom paint techniques while she captured his hands working, his expression focused. Found angles that showcased the craftsmanship without revealing security details I'd flagged.
Professional. Efficient. Respectful of boundaries once they were clearly established.
The Aaron situation still rankled. She was right about the content value—even I could see that the images perfectly represented the narrative Steel wanted to project.
But security protocols existed for a reason.
Minors in club content created vulnerabilities I wasn't willing to risk, regardless of marketing value.
My phone buzzed with an alert from my monitoring systems. Facial recognition match on the customer who'd just left—former associate of a Devils' Hand affiliate. Low-level connection, likely coincidental, but still flagged in my systems.
I made a mental note to run deeper background, just to be safe.
When I looked up, Daisy was reviewing her shots with Diesel, both laughing at something on her camera screen.
She'd pulled her hair up as the garage heated in the afternoon sun, exposing the curve of her neck, the small tattoo behind her ear that I hadn't noticed before.
Small sun symbol. Fitting for someone who called herself sunshine.
Irrelevant observation. Not security related.
I refocused, scanning the garage for any operational details that might have been inadvertently captured. Tool layout. Security panel locations. Personnel routines.
"Ghost," Daisy called, interrupting my assessment. "Can we get some shots of the finished bikes out front? Better light there."
I checked the time—4:17pm. Street traffic would be increasing as the local factory shift ended. More civilian eyes. More potential complications.
"Ten minutes," I conceded. "Front lot only. No street access."
She nodded, already gathering her equipment with practiced efficiency.
Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the row of finished custom bikes. Daisy moved between them, finding angles, adjusting settings, working with a focus that reminded me of my own when deep in code.
"These are incredible," she murmured, capturing the chrome detailing on a restored Triumph. "The craftsmanship shows real pride."
It did. The club's legitimate businesses weren't just covers—they were built on genuine skill. Brothers who'd found purpose in creation rather than destruction.
Part of our evolution. Adaptation to changing realities.
I understood it intellectually, even as my instincts still defaulted to shadows and silence.
"Five minutes," I reminded her.
Daisy nodded without looking up from her viewfinder. "Almost done."
I maintained my position between her and the street, a human firewall against potential threats. Physical or digital, my role remained the same—protect the club. Filter threats. Maintain security.
Even against sunshine trying to break through carefully constructed barriers.
Especially then.