Page 2 of Big Timber

“Clubhouse is on fire. Diesel got an alarm notification, then all the cameras went off-line at the same time,” he informs me. His voice is clipped and from his tone, I imagine that Jenna and his family are with him.

“If someone were watching us, they would have known the clubhouse was empty today,” I say, trying to figure out what the endgame is. “I’m almost there.”

“I think someone is watching us—just from the inside.” He confides in me.

Whether or not his family is with him, he doesn’t bother to hide his anger this time.

Turning onto the road that leads to the clubhouse, there are thick dark plumes of smoke above the orange-red tendrils of the fire. The gate has been pulled off, not driven through, as I would imagine the Fire Department would have done. Looking beyond the trucks parked at various angles around the front of the building, it takes my brain a moment or two to register what I’m seeing.

“Prez. Fuck. Do not bring your family here,” I gasp out the words as I throw my visor up, my eyes locked on the unthinkable image that I can’t rip my gaze away from. Then the smell hits me and I almost gag.

“What is it?” Declan growls as my mind tries to form my next sentence. “Timber, talk to me? Are you there?”

“Sir!” A young man in fire gear runs toward me. “You cannot be here. This is an active crime scene. You have to leave.”

I shake my head at him, still unable to speak until I hear Declan’s voice through the speaker in my helmet again.

“Who wasn’t with you, Prez? Who was it that stayed behind?” I ask him, wondering who the charred remains about twenty feet in front of me belong to.

“Everyone,” he tells me. “Brick is still in Mexico with Marcella and Teague, but you were the only one who didn’t come with us today.”

“Sir, you have to leave! Back up beyond the fence immediately,” the fireman, who’s now right beside me, repeats his instructions.

“This is my home, you motherfucker,” I bellow, grabbing the front of his coat as rage bubbles up. “Who is that? Who is that?”

Even as I yell at him and see his fear clear as day across his face, I know none of this is his fault. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to release him, and I hold my palm up, the only way I am capable of apologizing right now.

“Timber, man, speak to me.” Declan’s voice is calmer in my ear, so he is obviously aware that I’ve lost it. One day, a buddy of mine was shot and the back-alley doctor who worked on him cauterized the wound. The smell stayed with me for days afterwards. This smell is a thousand times worse than that.

“Tires and motorcycles are in a pile out front. One of the bikes is—was—propped up. Whoever it was burned up with the rest. Front of the building is still on fire. Who the fuck did this?” My words are choppy; my breathing becomes more ragged. The smell of the smoke in the air seeps through my lungs, and I start to feel dizzy.

“Sir,” a gentler voice comes from my right side, and it takes nearly all my energy to turn my head away from the fireman I was ready to tear apart. “Are you alright?”

I see a pair of clear green eyes, then the world goes dark.

*

“Timber, if you can hear me, I’m going to fucking kill you.” I wake up on my back. The weight of my bike is being lifted off of my right leg as Declan’s voice sounds as pissed as I’ve ever heard him.

“I’m on the ground,” I say, trying to figure out what happened as I watch the black smoke mingle with the clear blue sky above me.

“Sir? Sir, lay still. I’m going to check you out,” the female firefighter says as she helps her colleague right my bike and get the kickstand down. “The smoke can be hard to take if you aren’t prepared for it.”

“Good thing he had a helmet on,” the guy says, letting out a chuckle.

“Considering he looked like he was going to headbutt you a couple minutes ago, I’m not sure that’s a good thing,” she smartly responds, coming to kneel beside me. Her partner sends me a dark look as her comment effectively shut him down.

“Timber, are you alright?” Declan sounds calmer now.

“I think so,” I respond, until I shift my leg and pain shoots through my ankle. “I might have fucked up my ankle.”

“What did you say?” the woman asks, removing her helmet and gloves as she kneels beside me.

“I’m on the phone,” I tell her, feeling a jolt run through my chest as her warm hand makes contact with my wrist.

She lifts it and I can see her lips moving as she holds her finger over my pulse. “Okay, that’s not so bad. I’m going to need you to get off the phone and focus on me.”

“It’s the president,” I tell her, not understanding the surprised look across her face before she gives me a lopsided grin. “I have to give him an update.”

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