On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  “Why that lying, cheating…fucker.” Lynch hoped he’d nailed the right tone of indignation. “When the fuck was this?”

  “Last Halloween,” Rolo responded.

  With a disgusted grunt, Lynch drank his beer, covertly peering at the president over the rim. Rolo sounded…sad. Not enraged like he should if a member actually had walked out on the Streeters. You didn’t get to just walk away. Not without blood. Blood in, blood out. That’s the motto. If you wanted to leave, you had to pay a price. A very stiff price. One Lynch never could’ve paid…

  “You went after Flyer?” he asked.

  “Hell yes,” Hez snapped. “Junkyard and Tre went after him.”

  “Junkyard and Tre?”

  “Junkyard Taylor and Tre Olsen,” Hez answered. “Good guys, especially Tre. He got patched in a few years back. He rolled his bike—”

  “Enough,” Rolo said, authority edged his voice. “Edie will kick all our asses if she hears us talking about this. This is a party, goddamn it.” He topped off the cups. “There’ll be time enough later to catch up on all the club shit.”

  Lynch eyed the president. First he wasn’t infuriated by Flyer’s apparent desertion of the club and his mom, and now he didn’t want to discuss it? Rather than press the point, he decided to let it drop. For now.

  He turned and two men he didn’t recognize, but both wearing Streeter cuts, sauntered up. A red haze blanketed his vision. The shorter of the two sported the VP patch on his jacket.

  “So you’re the prodigal son who’s come home, eh?” the short one said with a snicker. “Name’s Junkyard Taylor. This here’s Bowyer.” He held out his hand. “Congrats on getting out.”

  Lynch’s scalp tingled like the first time he walked into the prison shower. Tats covered Junkyard and Bowyer’s exposed forearms and necks. Instinct said they were not to be trusted. Were these two somehow involved in Flyer’s death?

  Rather than shake hands, Lynch drained his glass in a gulp then burped. Loudly.

  The new VP lowered his arm, his gaze narrowing. “You got a problem, boy?”

  Though the same height, Junkyard had a wiry build and didn’t appear as muscular as Lynch. With gray streaking his reddish ponytail, Lynch doubted he’d have trouble taking him. By contrast, Bowyer was big and bald and kinda dumb-looking. He could be trouble.

  Lynch rolled his shoulders with a lazy shrug. “No…just want to enjoy the party with my brothers.”

  Junkyard cocked his head. “You don’t think I’m your brother?”

  Lynch handed his empty cup to Hez. “Grab me another, will ya, brother?”

  “Uh…sure…” But Hez didn’t move from Lynch’s side.

  Junkyard canted forward. “I’m waiting for an answer, boy. Don’t you think we’re brothers?”

  “How should I know?” Lynch answered. “Just met you two seconds ago. You could be a lying, cheating, no-good motherfucker as far as I know.”

  A twitch flickered at the corner of Junkyard’s eye. “Someone should teach you manners.”

  Lynch smiled a toothy grin. “And who’d do that? You?”

  A slow nasty smile spread across the VP’s face. “No. Him.”

  Junkyard stepped back as Bowyer advanced. Lynch tensed, ready for a charge, his hands balled into fists.

  Rolo moved in front of Lynch. “Enough of this shit. Go cool off, Junkyard.” He grabbed the back of Lynch’s shirt. “You, come with me.” He yanked Lynch to a vacant corner of the yard then released him. Hez trailed behind.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” the president demanded.

  Lynch adjusted his shirt. “Nuthin’.”

  “Like hell nuthin’,” Rolo snapped. “You know better than to diss club officers.”

  “But I don’t know Junkyard.”

  “But I do. Him and Bowyer.” Rolo crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Since when is my vouch not good enough for you?”

  With a silent curse, Lynch blew out a breath. His personal feelings about Flyer, mixed with the beer, were making him stupid—and careless. He forced his body to unwind before meeting Rolo’s gaze. “Sorry. It’s just that everything’s changed. This town. Different Streeter members. A new VP. And I can’t believe Flyer would leave like that. Leave my mom. They’d been together since I was in first grade. For him to throw away almost twenty-five years…”

  Rolo’s harsh expression softened and he dropped his arms. “I know it’s tough, but things change, brother. People change. Even after all those years.”

  Lynch stared at the ground. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I am.” Rolo clapped him on the back. “Now if you’re done being an asshole, we’ve got a little something to show you.”

  Curious, Lynch walked between Rolo and Hez to the detached garage he and Flyer converted into a bedroom for his sixteenth birthday. All his Streeter brothers, minus Junkyard and Bowyer—he doubted he’d ever think of those two as brothers—milled about on the cracked driveway, smiling and winking. Then everyone moved aside to expose an achingly familiar Softail Custom Harley. Lynch stopped dead in his shoes.

  “We got her out of storage as soon as Edie said you were coming home,” Mick volunteered, holding out the key. “It took most of the day, but me and Picket got her cleaned and tuned up.”

  Lynch took the key, swung a leg over the scooped, padded seat and trailed his fingertips along the handlebars. Nobody could nurse a long neglected Harley back to healthy better than Mick. The chrome gleamed like it had been polished for hours. Not a single smudge was anywhere to be seen. “Great job, brother.” He held his hand out to Mick. “Thank you.”

  “Well,” Rolo urged. “Don’t just sit there. Start her up.”

  Lynch inserted the key, activated the fuel petcock then pulled the choke out all the way. After turning the ignition key, he gently compressed the clutch lever and pressed the start button. The engine purred to life.

  Everyone whooped and hollered as Lynch revved the motor, not caring that his grin touched his ears. God…he wanted to hit the open road and ride. Ride far and fast. Feel the wind rush past his face and see nothing but open space. But Rolo motioned for him to cut the engine. Reluctantly, he complied and climbed off the bike.

  Facing Rolo, what the president held in his hands had emotions strangling Lynch.

  His cut.

  Holy Jesus Christ.

  Sudden clarity centered his mind and Lynch stiffened his spine as Rolo helped him slip on the jacket. He stroked his palms down the leather front. It felt like coming home.

  Really coming home. Because he was home.

  Moisture pressed at his eyes, but this time the beer had weakened his defenses, making him helpless against the onslaught of emotions. With a choked sob, he wrapped his arms around Rolo. Next came Hez who hugged Lynch tightly, his own shoulders quaking amidst the sniffles of the men surrounding them.

  After Hez came Mick, then Grunge, then the other Streeter brothers. Lynch wept harder with each embrace. He loved this crew—his family—every single motley one of them. And he was dying inside because as much as he loved them, he had to betray them. For their own good.

  Rolo wiped his nose. “All right…enough of this sappy shit. Let’s get drunk.”

  Lynch nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

  The group made its way to the keg when Jarvis interceded. “Excuse me. Mind if I have a word with my client?” Though the agent smiled, she looked far from happy.

  Once alone, she pivoted so Lynch’s back was to the yard. “Are you trying to screw this thing up before you even get started?” she hissed in a low voice.

  Lynch narrowed his eyes. “What the hell you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about your little show with that guy.”

  “Hey.” Lynch jabbed his finger. “He’s wearing Flyer’s patch.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn,” Jarvis fired back. “No one can suspect anything, you understand me? Otherwise you could get yourself killed, along with me and
Newman.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Jarvis scowled. “I mean it, Callan. If you want justice for Flyer, and not get dead, stick to the goddamn plan. Got it?”

  “I got it,” he ground out.

  “Good. Newman and I are leaving. We’ll give you the weekend to settle in and get the lay of the land. But time is short, so the sooner you bring us something actionable, the better. For everyone.”

  The agent strode to where Newman waited for her. Lynch mockingly saluted his “lawyer” then turned to see Rolo and Junkyard on the far side of the yard, away from everyone. The president flexed and rubbed his hands…his tell when the conversation wasn’t to his liking. Lynch would give just about anything to know what they were talking about…

  “Hey.”

  Lynch spun around. Hez stood there, two fresh beers in his hands.

  His friend handed him a cup. “Everything okay? You seem a million miles away.”

  “Yeah…everything’s just peachy.” Lynch took a healthy swallow of beer, his gaze back on Rolo and Junkyard. “What can you tell me about our new VP?”

  “Junkyard’s a decent enough guy. Smart and dependable. Watch out for Bowyer, though. That motherfucker’s crazy, especially with a knife. I saw him skin a live rabbit in less than a minute. He’s got mad skills. Deadly mad skills.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Where they from?”

  “They ran with a crew up in Vancouver, Washington.”

  “How long they been in the club?”

  Hez gave him a questioning look. “About five years. What’s with all the questions?”

  Lynch shrugged and loosened his stance. “Nuthin’. Just curious.”

  “You should know, Junkyard stepped up big when Flyer split.”

  Yeah, but was he responsible for Flyer murder?

  Lynch made a mental note to tell Jarvis about Mr. Junkyard Taylor. The feds had the resources to dig into the new VP’s background.

  Hez took Lynch’s beer and set both cups on the ground. “Okay…time for my welcome home present.” He pulled a nine millimeter Glock from his waistband and held it out. “I kept her cleaned and oiled.” He grinned. “I assume you’re not suppose to carry, but…”

  Lynch took the gift with a huge grin. “Yeah, fuck that.” The pistol grip fit his palm perfectly—just like always. It was like having back a missing part of his arm.

  He turned, pointed the barrel into the darkened corner of the yard and squinted down the sight. He wanted nothing more than to squeeze the trigger. Pop off a couple of rounds, if not the whole damn clip, but knew he couldn’t. He lowered the weapon and slid it into his waistband. The weight at his lower back gave him comfort. He pulled Hez into a quick hug. “Thanks for keeping her safe, man.”

  “Anytime, bro.” Hez eased away and pulled a joint and lighter from his pocket. “Time to get down to some serious celebrating.” He lit the thin cigarette, inhaled then handed it to Lynch.

  Lynch smiled. “Damn straight.” He drew in a deep pull, but his lungs protested the invasion of smoke after so many years without. He doubled over, coughing hard.

  Hez thumped his back with a laugh. “You okay?”

  Lynch straightened with his own chuckle. “Yeah.” He gave Hez the doobie. “Shit…that’s embarrassing.”

  “It’s like riding and fucking, man. You might not have done it in a while, but it’ll come back to you.”

  “Food’s ready!” Charlotte announced to appreciative applause.

  “Bout damn time.” Hez threw his arm around Lynch’s shoulders. “C’mon, brother. Let’s eat.”

  His mouth watering, Lynch piled his plate high with more food than he’d probably eaten in the entire past month, then he and Hez sat at the table with his mom.

  Rolo and Junkyard were still in conversation. The president leaned close to Junkyard, his finger in the VP’s chest. Junkyard said something. Then all hostility leaked from Rolo’s body. He gave a docile nod. Junkyard signaled to Bowyer and the two strode from the yard with cocky swaggers.

  If Lynch hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would’ve believed anyone capable of making Rolo back down. But Junkyard had.

  Rolo headed for the food line. When he saw Lynch watching him, he pasted on a wide smile. But it didn’t fool Lynch. Something was seriously not right with the Streeters. And he’d bet the next twenty years of his life the trouble centered around Junkyard.

  A few minutes later, Rolo took a seat next to Edie.

  Lynch made a show of looking around. “Junkyard ain’t staying?”

  “Nah. He and Bowyer got business.” Rolo picked up his burger.

  “What kind of business?”

  Rolo’s gaze drilled him. “Club business.”

  “Thought you were gonna catch me up on the club business.”

  “Not tonight, son.”

  “Why not? I’m anxious to get back to things.”

  The big man sighed. “Because it’s gonna take more than thirty seconds to fill you in on the last seven years.”

  “Tomorrow then.”

  Rolo shook his head. “Gonna be outta town until Tuesday. Now shut up and eat.”

  Lynch wanted to press the issue, but reluctantly, he dug into his meal instead. And soon he forgot everything except the explosion of flavor in his mouth.

  Good God…had food ever tasted this good? He didn’t think so, but it wasn’t long before his belly wouldn’t accept another bite.

  His mother frowned at his half-empty plate. “Is that all you’re eating? Didn’t you like it?”

  “Everything was great, Ma. Better than great. Really. Just full.”

  She opened her mouth, but Rolo cut her off. “Now what’d I say about fussing at him, Edie? The boy’s been on a prison diet. It’s gonna take time for his stomach to catch up to his eyeballs.” He pulled a joint from his breast pocket. “‘Sides, I bet he’s leaving room for dessert.” He lit the doobie then passed it to Lynch.

  When he hesitated, Hez elbowed him. “Like riding and fucking.”

  This time Lynch didn’t take as deep a drag and was able to hold the smoke in with a minimum of coughing. He gave the reefer to his mom who, after her toke, handed it to Hez. By the time the dope made it several times around, his body felt light and floaty. His mom cleared the plates and headed into the house. He looked at Rolo, nudging his head in her direction. “She okay?”

  Rolo folded his arms on the table. “As good as can be expected I suppose. Hez is right. Flyer’s leaving ripped her up good. But she’s a tough old broad. She’ll be fine.” He leaned back in his chair with a wink. “So…you ready for dessert? Hez, go fetch the dessert.”

  “With pleasure.” Grinning a shit-eating grin, Hez stood and walked to a darkened corner of the yard.

  Lynch patted his belly. “I couldn’t eat another thing.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll make room.” Rolo wagged his eyebrows, staring at something behind Lynch.

  Confused, Lynch turned. Hez escorted two attractive, and similar-looking blondes, one on each arm toward him. Catcalls and whistles echoed in the air.

  The girls wore hip-hugging jeans and midriff tops that nearly popped with their surgically enhanced tits. They were all smiles—and they were smiling right at him. He looked at Rolo who tipped his cup in salute.

  The realization of the situation sent a rush of blood to Lynch’s dick. All thoughts of Junkyard sped from his brain. Even Flyer became a ghostly memory as his jeans shrank two sizes.

  Oh fuck yeah!

  “In case you didn’t notice, they’re twins,” Hez stated. He nodded to the girl on his left arm. “This one’s Tamara and this one’s Tabitha. They work at the Comstock Whorehouse.” He winked. “Just like riding, right bro?”

  Tamara and Tabitha stood on either side of Lynch, their voluptuous tits right at eye level. Their hands stroked his upper back and chest. His body tightened painfully.

  Rolo jostled his shoulder. “Well, say something.”

  Lynch licked his dry
lips. “Um…thanks?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “The garage is fully stocked,” Rolo explained. “Clean sheets on the bed, food and beer in the fridge. And plenty of rubbers,” he added with a lecherous grin to the twins.

  Lynch stood. He wanted to act cool, like having two gorgeous hookers dropped into his lap happened every day. Truth was, his legs shook and his heart raced. And his cock felt ready to burst. He feared he’d blow his wad right then and there. He crooked his elbows to Tamara and Tabitha. “Ladies.”

  To thunderous applause and cheers, Lynch guided the girls into the single room apartment and the outside noise dimmed. The bedside light shed a warm glow over the room. Next to the lamp sat a bowl of foil packets. One girl turned down the sheets while the other took his hand and led him to the bed. She eased off his cut.

  “So which one are you?” He placed his Glock on the nightstand. “Tamara or Tabitha?”

  She paused in tugging his t-shirt from his waistband to look up. “Does it matter?”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  His shirt dispatched, both girls then went to work on the buttons of his fly. His jeans were shoved to his knees, along with his boxers, and his engorged dick sprang free.

  “Ohhh,” one of them cooed. “Nice.”

  “Uh, huh,” the other concurred. She flicked her tongue out and teased his tip.

  Small but determined hands pushed him onto the mattress. His shoes and socks were removed and his jeans shucked from his legs. He stretched out with his back against the headboard, one arm tucked behind his head with the other fisted around his cock, and watched the twins slowly disrobe.

  Actually they disrobed each other. Maybe he should’ve been weirded out because they were sisters and caressing each other’s tits struck him as borderline not okay. But with the beer and dope in his system, plus the adrenaline rush of today, Lynch would’ve been fine with them strapping on dildos and fucking each other’s asses.

  After the twins were naked—goddamn but they had smoking hot bodies—they crawled onto the bed with him, one on either side of him. They started by kissing and nipping his hipbones, torturously making their way toward his aching package. Once there, they alternated between licking his dick and stroking it. With four hands and two tongues, he would’ve thought they’d get in each other’s way, but they seemed well versed in teamwork.