Home > Fanning the Biker's Flame

Fanning the Biker's Flame
Author: Piper Davenport





MY DOORBELL RANG and I opened the door to find a large box on the porch. I frowned. I recognized the logo because the ads for the recipe and ingredient company were constantly popping up on my social media accounts.

The problem was, I hadn’t ordered it.

“Oh my god,” I breathed out, suddenly realizing who had.

I locked my door, carried the box into the kitchen, and called my mother.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

“No, ‘hello my beautiful girl, how are you’?” I admonished.

“Hello, my beautiful girl, how are you? Did you get it?”

I laughed. “Yes, Mama, I got it, but I don’t know why you’re trying… again. I can’t cook. I celebrate the fact I can’t cook, and I don’t want anyone to change me.”

“But you have to cook for your husband.”

“Oh, my lord, Mama, it’s not nineteen-fifty! I don’t want a husband.”

“Yes, you do. You just can’t cook so you don’t think you can find one.”

My mother had absolutely no filter.

“This is not true, and you know it.” I ran a knife down the seam of the tape keeping the box closed. “If I find a husband because some man drops in my lap and says he can’t live without me, then he will be able to cook.”

She scoffed. “I have failed you as a mother.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m still southern to the core, Mama.”

“We’ll argue about that later.”

I grinned, pulling the items out of the box. “Or we won’t.”

“Please make your dinner, honey. Don’t order pizza.”

“I’ll try, Mom. I’ll send you photos of how it all turns out.”

“There’s the spirit. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I said, and hung up.

Once I read through the instructions, I felt like it wasn’t going to be that hard and set out to make my own dinner.

* * *



“Probee!” my captain bellowed.

I dragged my hands through my hair as I swept it into a tight bun on top of my head, and rushed into the firehouse kitchen. I had been a probationary, part-time firefighter for about a year with the Savannah Fire Department, and I was taking my lumps. Much like when I was a prospect for the Dogs of Fire Motorcycle Club. I don’t know why I was taking this double barrel of abuse to the face, but I’d found my dreams colliding and I decided I’d take whatever they dished out.

Thankfully, I was now a fully patched member of the club and didn’t have long before I’d earn my stripes as a new firefighter.

“Yes, sir?” I asked, as I walked into the room, and stalled.

I glanced around and found my crew sitting at the large dining table.

“Goddammit, probee, it’s your night to cook, we’re all sitting here starving to death.”

“I’m sorry, Cap, I thought it was Rondle’s night.” I rubbed the back of my neck as my stomach churned. The cardinal sin of any firehouse was to miss a chow shift, and I was exhausted, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that I forgot. Despite the fact I was supposed to be only working one day a week, I often took extra shifts in order to get more hours under my belt, so I was working three twenty-four-hour shifts a week with a day off in between. But I was coming up on the max I was able to work in a month, which meant I had a week off starting the day after tomorrow. “I must have got my days mixed up. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re goddamn right it’s not going to happen again. ’Cause this is your last screw up as a probee…”

Shit, I couldn’t lose this job. Well, I could financially, but I couldn’t mentally.

“…and your first as what I’m sure will be many as a member of SFD.”

The room erupted into cheers as everyone gathered around me, slapping me on my back, then the rescue team walked in, our head EMT Marney, holding a cake complete with sparklers in it, and I grinned. I fuckin’ loved cake.

Rondle handed me a can of whipped cream. “Time to put out your first official fire.”

I laughed and used the can like a fire extinguisher, smothering the fireworks.

“Since tonight is a celebration night, we’ve ordered from Boon’s,” Sarge said, and I grinned.

Boon’s was a local, hole in the wall, barbeque joint and it was a favorite among pretty much anyone who loved food.

“I fuckin’ love Boon’s.”

“Yeah, we know,” Rondle said with a laugh, punching my shoulder.

“Have a seat,” my captain ordered, and a plate of ribs was set in front of me.

I rubbed my hands together, lifted a rib to my mouth and took a bite… just as the alarm sounded.

“Engine Twelve, residential fire, 5-1-5 Montgomery Street,” our dispatcher said over the intercom.

Shit. The Bowery had multiple apartments that could be at risk. We all pushed back from the table and made a run for our boots. We suited up and then it was go-time. I climbed into the truck after Rondle and tried to stamp down the excitement as we hauled ass to the site of the fire.

* * *



I stood outside my apartment building and covered my face with my hands. I’d lived there for less than three months, and I’d only moved in because of a really nasty break-up with my ex. An ex whose apartment I’d been living in for two years, so I had to find somewhere else, fast. I didn’t need this.

“It’s okay, darlin’,” my elderly neighbor, Sharon, crooned, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.

The flashing red lights of the fire truck lit up the exterior brick and a small crowd of residents gathered around me. I was mortified.

“This wasn’t a 9-1-1 level emergency,” I breathed out.

“Your kitchen was on fire, dear heart,” Sharon reminded me.

“I was putting it out!” I cried, my face flaming.

“Better safe than sorry.”

Hailey Calloway waltzed into the crowd and gave me a scowl before turning to her friend and shaking her head. Hailey was twenty-two years old and her father owned the building. He’d given her the top floor apartment, four times the size of mine, and she was the epitome of what you’d call a rich bitch.

“I heard she tried to cook the box,” Hailey said nastily.

I turned away with a quiet groan. I didn’t try to cook the box, the instructions just didn’t mention you were supposed to take the food out of the box before putting it in the oven. I was never going to let my mother try to talk me into anything cooking related again.

“Who’s the resident?” a very severe fireman bellowed.

“Um…” I raised my hand. “I am.”

He walked over to me, another firefighter following. “Ma’am, you have some minor smoke damage to your wall, but nothing structural that I can see. You will need to replace your range, but otherwise, you were very lucky.”

I nodded, my gaze drawn to the young firefighter next to him. He was beautiful, but he was also smirking. Obviously judging me and judging me harshly. I scrunched up my nose and focused back on the man in charge.

“Next time, make sure you don’t cook the box,” he suggested.

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