The Rave & Raze warehouse was buzzing with camera clicks, studio lights flashing against the polished chrome of the motorcycles lined in perfect rows. The busy space was covered in machines, leather, and something more pronounced: the tension between two angry women in the room.
Gia stood at the edge of the set, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her lips pressed into a thin line.
On the bike in front of her, Whitney arched her back like a cat, her long legs spread across the leather seat, the slit of her outfit, if it could even be called that, left little to imagination.
"Perfect, Whitney!" the photographer barked, snapping away. "Give me more attitude, yes, like that! Tilt your head, give me a soft pout, eyes on the camera!"
But Whitney wasn't looking at the camera.
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