Page 114 of Strut

A makeup stylist immediately checked me over and slapped a little more lip gloss in place before scurrying off. And just like always, the nerves kicked in and the adrenaline fired like a furnace in my belly. But these were good nerves, the best. I fucking loved this shit. Still, I took a moment to breathe.

Rhys looked me over with approval and beamed. “Okay, go do your thang, gorgeous.” Then his gaze narrowed. “You still won’t tell me what you two have got planned, huh?” He looked between Daniel and me.

“Nope.” I grinned. “You’re just gonna have to trust us.”

Rhys had given Daniel and me creative licence to ham things up a little in this last show. And yes, we might’ve taken him at his word a little too literally. All Rhys knew was that we’d asked to have a bubble of time on the opening run exclusively for the two of us, before they sent anyone else out.

Rhys groaned. “I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?”

“Quite possibly.” I hoped I didn’t.

“Oh god. I don’t want to know.” Rhys left to walk down his line of models.

Daniel sighed dramatically at my back. “Second in lineagain. I’m doomed to follow your arse down that runway for the rest of my life, aren’t I?”

I turned to grin at him. “Youlikemy arse.”

He laughed. “That’s true. Just don’t tell my husband.”

“Hey, Jared,” I whisper-shouted to a tall beefcake beauty of a man chatting with the makeup stylist.

Daniel clamped a hand over my mouth. “He won’t believe you. He knows I like my men splitting the seams of their shirts. And as pretty as you are, baby, that is definitelynotyou.”

It was my turn to laugh.

“So, we’re still on?” Daniel whispered.

“Yes. Absolutely.” I could barely contain my excitement.

“Thirty seconds.” Rhys clapped his hands and made one final pass. Most of his models were men but there were a few women sprinkled into the mix to showcase his brand-new line of women’s clothes. Everyone fell quiet and focused. Fashion week or charity event, it didn’t matter. When the music pumped and the lights hit the catwalk, we were all on our game.

On the other side of the backdrop, the background music stopped, the lights dimmed, and the audience hushed. Then Kip’s voice came through the speaker to introduce the last and premiere show of the evening, Flare, with designer Rhys Hellier. Kip summarised the label’s recent success on the world stage—the pride and joy of a small down-under fashion community. There was much clapping and cheering and even a few whistles before a hush fell again and the anticipation mounted.

Then the loud thumping drum of local band Roto rose in the almost dark room, and Rhys’s hand landed on my shoulder.

“Do me proud, gorgeous. For the kids, yeah?”

“For the kids.” I shot him a wink, got the nod from the assistant managing the runway, and strode onto the catwalk.

* * *

The heat from the lights blisters my skin and blinds my eyes, the pounding beat of the music sinking into my bones. Every cell in my body electrified and alive as I step onto the runway.

Cameras flash. Breaths catch. The critical gaze of two hundred sets of eyes burning my skin. Assessing. Analysing. Questioning.

Can I wear that?

Do I dare?

Would it let me be him for just a moment?

Make them wonder. Help them imagine. Breathe life into the design. Draw emotion. Feel, want, buy.

The fabric shifts on my body, organza rough over sensitive nipples, satin sliding over bare arse, the g-string just a tempting hint beneath the threads. Thinking every step. Is the fabric moving how Rhys wants? Am I hitting the line, the light? Can I make it better? Shift a shoulder? Show a leg? Always about the look. Always.

But tonight is different. We’re here to coax those dollars free, and we have a plan.

I catch a pair of familiar brown eyes and dark scruff in the front row and wink as I pass. People turn and smile. Hunter blushes. So fucking cute.

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