“Not sure yet,” he answered, and I heard Harlow’s voice in the background. Scott said something to her and then came back to me. “See you soon,” he said before ending the call.
I finished throwing on clothes and headed out to my bike. The minute I stepped foot outside, the humidity stuck to me. Fuck, this summer was brutal – not even six in the morning and already a scorcher.
As I sped off towards Trilogy, I thought the only good thing about leaving for work this early was the lack of traffic. My home in Bulimba wasn’t far from where Trilogy was in The Valley, but peak hour traffic more than doubled the time to get there some mornings. The lack of traffic today meant I pulled up outside the restaurant just over fifteen minutes later.
Surveying the damage from the fire, I estimated the restaurant was as good as fucked. I found Scott talking to one of the firies. When they’d finished their conversation and we were alone, Scott confided, “Looks like arson. They found empty fuel containers, and while they won’t voice their suspicions, I know we sure as fuck don’t keep fuel containers on the premises.”
“Fuck,” I muttered, my brain scrambling to figure out who would set fire to the restaurant and what their motive would be.
A vein pulsed in his neck as he scrubbed a hand over his face. Taking a deep breath, he said, “You and I have got some visiting to do today, brother. Nash and J can keep digging for the info on Ricky’s deal, but I want us to figure this fire out.”
I nodded. “Agreed.”
“Wilder can take the lead on dealing with the staff and insurance.”
“I’ll go over it with him, make sure he’s up to speed,” I said, wanting to take some of the load off Scott.
“Thanks,” he said as he kicked some debris on the ground in front of us. Looking at me, exhaustion clear in his eyes, he muttered, “When do you think all the shit will let up? Because I’m getting fuckin’ tired of it landing in our laps. It feels like just when we sort out one issue, another one flares up.”
It was a question I’d asked myself often lately. “No idea, man. But I hope it’s soon because every time we get dragged into shit, it’s taking us away from the one thing we really need to be putting time into. And that concerns the fuck outta me.”
“You’re talking about the club, yeah?”
Nodding, I said, “Yeah. There’s still a divide between the boys and us. Marcus made damn sure of that before he died, and as much as I hate to admit it, we’re really fucking struggling here to come back from that.” The motherfucker had spread so many lies about Scott and turned most of the club against him. My unwavering support of Scott after Marcus’s death had caused them to doubt me as well.
“Trust can’t be bought; the only way we’re gonna get it back is with time. And you’re right, that’s going against us at the moment.” He paused and stared at me as if a million thoughts were running through his mind, and I figured they probably were. “We need to put some time into rebuilding those relationships. I can’t do anything tonight but let’s organise drinks for tomorrow night at the clubhouse if you’re free.”
“I’m free. I’ll make it happen.”
He checked his watch. “I’ve got stuff to do with Harlow, but let’s meet at nine and get this shit sorted.”
“I’ll clue Nash, J and Wilder in.”
He nodded and turned his gaze to what was left of the restaurant. “Whoever did this will pay, Griff. I’ve let shit slide lately, but I’m done.” He looked at me through hard eyes. “Storm’s not going to roll over and be fuckin’ walked over, and if they thought we would now that Marcus isn’t here, they seriously underestimated us.”
I couldn’t have agreed with him more.
* * *
Three hours later, I’d organised everyone who needed organising, and was working through paperwork in the office when Scott walked in with a scowl on his face.
“King and Kick just pulled up,” he informed me.
I sat back in the chair, dropped the pen I held, and let out a low whistle. Our relationship with the Sydney chapter of Storm had been strained since Marcus’s death, and for King, their President, to turn up said things weren’t looking up.
I followed him out to the bar area where King was deep in conversation with Kick and Nash. He glanced in our direction as we entered the room, and gave Scott a nod before turning back to Nash.
Kick left their conversation and made his way to us. His hand reached out for Scott’s and he shook it before doing the same with me. “Scott, Griff,” he greeted us, his voice somber and his expression void of any emotion.
Before we could speak, King joined us. “Boys,” he boomed in greeting, his eyes flicking between us. King always had an unpredictable air to him, and tension ran through me as I waited to hear why he’d made the trip to Brisbane.