Everyone cleared out of the room in a hurry. Shepherd and Ginny followed behind, but only as far as the mouth of thehallway. There was a run on the exit, as everyone inside the clubhouse was trying to get out and see what happened. Outside one of the windows, black smoke was visible.
Shepherd sighed. “I had big plans for that truck.”
“Come on,” Ginny grabbed his wrist and yanked him back to the bedroom. “Before they all come back!”
Shepherd went down to his knees and then onto his belly, slithering under the furthest twin mattress like a snake or, at the very least, a salamander. There was an alarming number of socks under the bed, but bravely, valiantly, like Luke Skywalker or some sort of paladin, Shepherd shoved his hand underneath the pile of questionable cleanliness. His fingers grazed canvas.
Throwing a grin over his shoulder at the woman standing behind him, Shepherd said, “Got it.”
“Shepherd! Amazing!” Ginny grinned, but her grin faded as she glanced around the room. “How do we get it out?”
Shepherd sat on his knees. The painting was almost the same size as the twin bed it hid under. The only exits to the building were currently filled with gawking bikers and old ladies. He swore, then swore again for good measure.
“We have to try the window.”
Ginny pointed at the window above the bed. “That window?”
“That’s the only window in here, Ginny.”
“The sad clown isn’t going to fit throughthat, Shepherd!”
Shepherd lifted the bed frame up and kicked away the socks. The sad clown frowned up at him. “He’s not gonna like it,” Shepherd agreed, “but it’s gonna happen whether he likes it or not.”
The canvas framing cracked as Shepherd shouldered it through the open window.
Ginny gasped. “Don’t hurt Hector!”
“Who the hell is Hector?”
“He is.” She pointed at the clown face, its frown warping into something even more sinister. “Doesn’t he look like a Hector?”
Shepherd glared at her. “Would you just help me shove, please?”
Ginny pushed while Shepherd helped the canvas bend. It finally slid through the window and landed on the asphalt outside with a pathetic whomp. Ginny went next. But she tried to get through it by sitting on the windowsill like it was a horse.
“Oh. Oh no,” she said, her shoulders crammed under the window, her nose touching her knee. “OK. I’ve got this.”
“You want me to push?”
“Don’t you dare push me, Preston Shepherd! I have this handled!”
Shepherd stepped back to get a better view of how she was handling it. “You look like a pretzel.”
“Just. OK.” She inched a little more outside. “Ow. Ow. Ow.” Finally, her head made it from underneath the window. “Oh, thank you, Jesus. Watch out, Hector!”
She eased herself the rest of the way out. “I can almost touch the grou—” She fell out of view.
Shepherd rushed to the window, hands bracing on the sill.
Ginny had landed ass first on Hector. She was lying over him, arms and legs spread-eagled, with a grimace on her face. “I’m OK!” She waved. “Come on down!”
It was maybe a six-foot drop. How this clubhouse hadn’t been damaged in previous hurricane storm surges, Shepherd had no idea. His arms and head got through the window fine. Shoulders hurt a bit, but he winced and pushed through. It wasn’t until his feet were dangling inside the room and the rest of him was outside in the heat that he realized he’d run into a bit of trouble.
Ginny wiped dirt off her palms. “You stuck?”
“No,” Shepherd lied. “I’m just … thinking about landings, is all.”
“You look stuck.”
