This was my life.
For, well, however long it was necessary for it to be my life.
I sighed hard, grabbing the thong and bra and heading into the bathroom. The porcelain of the sink was still slightly tinted purple from where I had dyed my hair the night before. I pulled the black t-shirt off my head and let my damp hair fall in a straight, heavy, deep purple mass down almost to my waist. I raked a brush through it then dried it with the hair dryer the bathroom boasted that smelled like burning rubber.
It was alright.
I could get used to it.
K told me to go for a drastic change.
He told me to cut off most, or even all, of my long blond hair. And, well, I was willing to do a lot of things, but I wasn't willing to cut off my hair.
But, still, he would approve.
I didn't even look like me anymore.
Sure, I had the same face with a slightly square jaw, generous lips, and hazel eyes. My eyebrows had been dyed as well, but not purple, dark brown. I was covering all traces of my former image. I needed to not look like that trouble-magnet accountant from New York City, then Vermont, then New York City again.
I wasn't her anymore.
Chances were, I would never get to be her again.
That morning, with purple hair, mascara-darkened lashes, black-lined eyes, and a slightly pear-shaped body that was wide of hip, generous of thigh and ass, but with a small waist and acceptable-sized boobs, I wasn't me.
I wasn't even me playing at someone else.
I was Maze.
Case closed.
I took a deep breath, shaking out the tension in my shoulders, and made my way back out to the bedroom. I grabbed the red snake-skin leather pants and the black wifebeater I had picked out as my first outfit. I slipped into my clothes, sitting off the side of the bed to roll on socks and slip into a pair of clunky black combat boots. The ritual of dressing calmed me, grounded me, as I did what K taught me to do when I was stressed: go over the plan. Go over the plan until you knew it inside and out, into all the nooks and crannies, until the running monologue of it threatened to drive you insane.
"I'm going to finish getting dressed. I'm going to grab my wallet with my fake IDs. I'm going to get onto that God-awful motorcycle and pretend I love it, that I was practically born on two wheels. I am going to drive to the compound and demand to see Reign."
If Reign wasn't available, I could demand Cash. If Cash wasn't available, Wolf would do in a pinch. Then, well, I had to use whatever I had in my toolbox to get the outcome I needed.
With Reign, that meant being a badass, challenging him, not shrinking away from his dark and dangerous persona.
With Cash, that meant I needed to be both strong and feminine. I needed to flirt if he flirted, but brush it away if he actually tried to follow through. He wouldn't respect me as a prospect if I gave in too easily.
With Wolf, well, I would have to do all the talking and pray that he had some kind of soft spot, some Achilles heel I could exploit.
I wrapped the strap of my wallet around my wrist and grabbed my keys as I went to the door. My heart was a slamming bass beat in my chest and the summer heat blasted me and did nothing to help the nervous sweat I felt all over my skin.
"I'm going to get onto that God-awful motorcycle and pretend I love it, that I was practically born on two wheels. I am going to drive to the compound and demand to see Reign," I whispered out loud to myself as I crossed the parking lot toward my bike parked in the far left corner. There was a small group of truckers standing beside their rigs as I passed, but I had gotten over my fear of what random nobodies had thought about me around the first time K taught me how to get out of an arm-triangle choke.
"What's that honey?" one of them, the one with the biggest beer belly and a huge, bushy mustache, asked as I passed.
"I am going to drive to the compound and demand to see Reign. I am going to get him to give me a chance. I am going to integrate myself into the club. I am going to belong. I am going to be safe."
"Crazy bitch," I heard muttered as I threw a leg over my bike, unclasping my helmet from the bars and slipping it on.
Crazy bitch.
I wasn't offended.
No, in fact, in that moment, I totally agreed with him.
If I thought this plan was going to work, well, I was definitely a crazy bitch.