Chapter 2
DAISY
"Ten thousand new impressions since yesterday!" I squealed to my empty apartment, spinning in my desk chair while staring at my analytics dashboard.
The Broken Throttle MC post was blowing up my metrics. I hadn't expected a local motorcycle club celebration to generate this kind of traction, but apparently my followers were hungry for authentic glimpses into subcultures they'd only seen romanticized in shows like Sons of Anarchy.
I zoomed in on the engagement rates. Comments were through the roof. Shares even better.
This was good. Really good. The kind of numbers that attracted bigger sponsorships—the kind that might finally let me cover Dad's medical bills without draining what little savings I had left.
I clicked through to one of the motorcycle club photos—a candid shot of a massive man with his arm around a petite redhead, both laughing. There was something raw about the image, something real that contrasted perfectly with the carefully curated farmhouse aesthetic I usually posted.
My phone pinged with a notification from my banking app, and reality crashed back. Another automatic payment to the hospital. Another dent in my account that influencer freebies and small-town sponsorships couldn't fill fast enough.
I glanced around my apartment, which looked nothing like the dreamy, rustic-chic space my followers thought I lived in.
The farmhouse-styled corner I used for filming was a carefully constructed illusion—thrift store furniture arranged just so, a backdrop of shiplap I'd painted myself, lighting positioned to hide the water stain on the ceiling and the crack running down the wall.
Digital smoke and mirrors.
The rest of the apartment was bare-bones functionality. IKEA basics. Walmart necessities. A far cry from the abundant lifestyle my feed portrayed.
My phone rang—Dad's ringtone.
"Hey, sunshine," he greeted, his voice weaker than last week. "How's my famous daughter today?"
I forced cheer into my voice. "Getting more famous by the minute. The Hidden Gems of Riverdale series is taking off. You wouldn't believe the engagement on yesterday's post."
"That's my girl," he said, pride evident even through the fatigue. "Your mama would've been so proud seeing you make something of yourself right here in Riverdale."
The mention of Mom sent the familiar ache through my chest. Three years gone, and it still hurt like yesterday.
"You taking your meds on schedule?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Yes, ma'am," Dad chuckled. "The nurse was just here. Heart's still ticking, just not as enthusiastic about it as it used to be."
I swallowed hard. "I'll be over tonight with dinner. That new medication making you nauseous?"
"Not too bad. Might actually have some appetite for those chicken enchiladas you mentioned."
"It's a date," I promised, already mentally calculating if I could afford to pick up dessert too.
After hanging up, I returned to my metrics, scanning through comments. Most were positive, people appreciating the glimpse into local culture. Some asked questions about the motorcycle club—who they were, if they were dangerous, if I knew them personally.
Then one comment caught my eye.
@RoadWarrior87: Bold move posting Broken Throttle's patches and clubhouse interior. They don't usually allow that kind of exposure. Hope you got permission or you might get a visit.
I frowned, clicking on the profile—generic motorcycle avatar, minimal posts, created last month. Probably nothing. Just someone trying to sound knowledgeable.
Still, an uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. I hadn't exactly asked permission before posting. Sophie had invited me to the engagement party as her plus-one, mentioned it was fine to take photos, but I hadn't specifically cleared posting them on my account.
"You're being paranoid," I muttered to myself, closing the laptop.
I had a sponsorship proposal to finish for the local organic farm market, content to film for the vintage clothing boutique downtown, and dinner to make for Dad. No time to worry about some random comment.
My phone pinged with a text from my most reliable client—the artisanal coffee shop wanted to reschedule tomorrow's shoot. Translation: another day without that invoice being processed.
I bit my lip, doing mental calculations. If I moved some money from my emergency fund—which was really just a sad little savings account with less than two months' rent in it—I could cover Dad's next treatment co-pay. The sponsored post for the new home décor store would replenish it. Hopefully.
The digital hamster wheel never stopped. Create, post, engage, repeat. All while making it look effortless and authentic.
I stood and stretched, moving to the kitchenette to make another cup of coffee. As I waited for the Keurig to warm up, I flipped through filters for tomorrow's content. Sunrise glow for the breakfast series. Muted natural for the hiking trail feature. Vibrant for the farmers market preview.
Different versions of Riverdale. Different versions of me. Whatever the algorithm and the sponsors wanted.
The knock on my door was unexpected and heavy. Three sharp raps that seemed to vibrate through the apartment.
I wasn't expecting anyone. The coffee shop owner wouldn't come by without texting first. Same with my few local friends.
Cautiously, I approached the door and peered through the peephole.
Oh. My. God.
Standing in my hallway was six feet plus of intimidation in a leather cut, the Broken Throttle MC patch clearly visible over a black hoodie. Dark hair falling past his shoulders, sharp features, and an expression that could only be described as a scowl.
My heart skipped, then raced. @RoadWarrior87's comment suddenly seemed less like paranoia and more like warning.
For a second, I considered pretending I wasn't home. But the man outside shifted, glancing directly at the peephole as if he knew I was there, could sense me watching.
With a deep breath, I smoothed my hair, straightened my shoulders, and opened the door.
"Can I help you?" I asked, aiming for confident but landing somewhere closer to slightly terrified.
Dark eyes assessed me from behind even darker sunglasses, which he didn't bother to remove despite being indoors.
"Daisy Fletcher?" His voice was low, with a rough edge like he didn't use it often.
I nodded, suddenly very aware that I was wearing leggings and an oversized sweatshirt—about as far from my curated online persona as possible.
"We need to talk about your social media posts," he said. "Specifically, the ones featuring my club."
Well, shit.