Page 70 of My Hotshot

The elevator clanked and groaned, then started its slow ascent. We rose three floors before it stopped with a loud thunk, and the doors opened.

He rolled us forward onto a smooth concrete floor. At the far end of the space, I saw lights, camera rigs, and several people bustling around. And beyond all that—the club.

Duane pulled us to a stop and cut the engine. The silence after the ride made my ears ring.

“‘Bout time you got here,” Cue Ball called.

Smoke walked over and stretched his arms like he’d just finished a twelve-hour shift. “ThankGodit’s your turn. Pretty sure they took, like, a thousand pictures of each of us.”

“Dice,” Yarder called from behind a backdrop. “You’re up first.”

Duane groaned. “Jesus. I didn’t even get a chance to relax.”

I slid off the bike and planted my feet on the ground, trying to look casual despite my jelly legs. He dismounted too, much more gracefully than I was.

I didn’t know where to go or what to do. Everyone else here seemed to know the drill. Me? I still couldn’t believe I was standing in a warehouse being ushered into aphotoshoot for a reality TV show.

Duane leaned in and pressed a kiss to my lips. “Stay close, okay?”

The man was about to go full GQ biker mode, and he was worried aboutme.

“I’ll be right here,” I promised. Then I winked. “Knock ‘em dead, hotshot.”

“Hotshot?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

I nodded, grinning. “Yup. You are definitely a hotshot. Reality TV? Big photoshoots? You’re practically famous.” I rested my hand against his chest. “Hotshot.”

He laughed and tugged me closer, pressing another kiss to my mouth. “Yourhotshot, babe.”

Damn right. I looked up at him and smiled. “My hotshot.”

And with that, he turned and walked toward the flashing lights and the waiting cameras.

And I stood there, wondering how I’d ended up here.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dice

I was done.

I didn’t want to do this anymore.

It was torture—pure and simple—being able to see Lainey but not touch her. For five damn hours, she’d been in the same building, just a few feet away, but I might as well have been on the other side of the world.

I hadn’t felt her skin under my hands. Hadn’t tasted her lips. Hell, I hadn’t even said five whole words to her. Every time I looked over, she was laughing with the girls or sitting quietly with that serene smile she wore when she didn’t know anyone was watching. And I had to stand still, smile for the camera, and pretend I wasn’t dying inside.

For three and a half hours, they rotated between me, Fade, Compass, and Yarder. If we weren’t being photographed, we were changing wardrobe or moving props. When the crew switched to filming the girls, I thought we’d finally get a break.

Nope.

They needed the bikes moved around for the group shots. Of course, they offered to do it themselves—but not a single one of us was about to let some production assistant climb on our bikes like they were set dressing. So, no break for us. Just more shifting, tweaking, adjusting.

By the time the group shots were over, I was half a breath from collapsing. I was sweaty, tired, and strung out on caffeine and adrenaline. My back ached. My head throbbed.

But none of that mattered the second I heard the photographer shout, “That’s a wrap!”

That was all I needed.

---