“I don’t think so.” I finally find my words again.
“Good. Don’t go outside. Lock the doors and all of you go into the front of the bakery, but stay behind the counter. I want you to be able to see outside, but stay inside. Okay?”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m on my way to you, Duchess. I promise. Just get behind the front counter. Now!”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Duchess.”
“I love you, too.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHISKEY
When I was growing up, there was nothing I wanted more than to be the President of the Rebel Vipers Motorcycle Club. My Pops was the coolest, most badass man I knew, and I wanted to be just like him when I got older. But now that I am that man, now that I am the President and boss and husband and father, I’ve learned that his job was never as easy as he made it seem.
Being the club President is a full time job. Not only am I the one everyone comes to for advice, when they need help solving a problem, or just to have another ear to talk to about whatever is on their minds, I am the boss who oversees it all. The club, our businesses, the families . . . I feel the pressure of it all. And thismay sound completely crazy, but it is all why I have a very weird love hate feeling about Mondays.
Monday mornings are my Zen time.
Not only is Monday is my day to organize the weight slips for the recycling and salvage yard, but it also is the day I get a few hours to myself with no planned interruptions. The guys all know that when I lock myself in this office, the one on the yard, not my office in the clubhouse, they don’t get to bother me. Unless the world is ending, or someone needs to go to the emergency room, I am off limits.
It’s a few minutes to noon, and my stomach is rumbling because I have yet to eat today, so I’m debating what to eat for lunch. I know there are leftover chicken enchiladas in the fridge at home. I wonder when Duchess will be home? I should call her and find out.
Putting the last of the slips in the large manilla envelope, I clasp it shut, write the date on the front, then add it to the tray on the corner of my desk. When I go back to the clubhouse, I will take the pile of folders and drop them off to Kraken for filing.
I push the desk chair in, grab my coat off the hook behind me, then slide it on. Just as I pick my cell phone up off the desk, the entire building shakes.
BOOM!
“What the fuck was that?” There is no one else in the room to hear me, but the words come out on their own.
“WHISKEY!” Someone yells out. “FIRE!”
Phone still in hand, folders forgotten, I run out of the office and into the lobby area. Hammer is standing there, looking out the window, staring at the giant mangled mess of what used to be an Oldsmobile Cutlass that is now up in flames.
“What the hell happened?” I ask him as I hustle to his side.
“No fucking clue.” He starts walking toward the door. “I just came inside to close the front gate. I know the yard is usuallyclosed on Mondays, but the phone rang when I was in here earlier and a guy was asking if he could drop off a junker.”
Just as we step outside, I hear sirens start to wail. Shit. A passerby must have called 911. Well, there’s no avoiding them now.
“Who the fuck was it?”
“I have no damn clue. I’d need to check the sheet they filled out. It’s in the office.” He points a thumb at the building behind us.
“Go do that. Since the law is on their way, they’re gonna want any info we got on whoever dropped this fireball off.”
“I’ll go grab the clipboard.”
Hammer no more than turns around before both of our phones start pinging like crazy. There is only one person who can override a ringtone and make both of our devices sound like an air raid siren.
Cypher:BIG PROBLEMS!
Cypher:Explosions at all club businesses.
