On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  One knelt between his parted legs and pillowed his dick with her boobs. Holy shit. It was like having his cock surrounded by a cloud. A soft, downy, perfect cloud.

  The other worked up his torso. Her tongue swirled in his bellybutton before she kissed her way to his chest. She bit lightly on his nipple. She nibbled on his neck just below his ear. Goose bumps chased across his scalp. Straddling his lap, she thrust her breasts in his face.

  He palmed one boob while twirling his tongue around the other pert nipple. Delicate fingers threaded through his hair with a moan. He sucked the tit deep into his mouth. Moist heat swallowed his cock, and his vision blurred.

  The girl on top bounced and jiggled as the girl on the bottom deep-throated him.

  Whatever control Lynch held over his body snapped. He came with a shout and torrent of cum. But he came too quickly. He wanted to savor this moment. Prolong it. Not come like a high school freshman during his first trip to a whorehouse.

  Top girl climbed off him and he slithered to a prone position, his eyelids suddenly heavy. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  She kissed his cheek. “No worries, lover. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

  Chapter Six

  AND THEY WERE. For two whole damn days, Lynch did nothing but sleep and fuck. Occasionally he ate, but not that much. His need for sleep and pussy seemed insatiable.

  In prison, sleep was as prized a commodity as privacy, and just as impossible to get. You learned fast not to fall into a deep sleep around a bunch of inmates. Made for a short life.

  As for pussy, you also learned to make do with what you had available while incarcerated. Or worse, learned to have someone make do with you.

  On Monday morning, the third official day of his freedom, brightness against his closed eyelids forced Lynch from slumber. He cracked one eye. Sunlight streamed through the small, rectangular windows of the old pull-up garage door and across his face. The smell of cum and sweat hung the stale air. His dick pulsed with need, ready for action. He groped for a handful of ass or tit, but found nothing but empty bed next to him.

  With a groan, he sat up, blinking to clear his vision. Both Tamara and Tabitha were gone. He squinted at the clock radio on the dresser across the room.

  8:17 am.

  A sudden and loud rattling turned his attention to the nightstand, and the cell phone on top. He leaned over to grab it. Someone at some point had been smart enough to plug it in to charge. The small screen lit up an unknown number.

  Jarvis and/or Newman.

  He answered.

  “Is Darren there?”

  He stretched out on the rumpled sheets. “All clear, counselor.”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  He frowned at her snappish question. “Where does the GPS on this phone say I’ve been? Thought you knew where I’d be at all times.”

  “Don’t get smart, Callan. You’re not very good at it. I know you’ve been at your mom’s. I also know you were instructed to answer whenever we call. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since Saturday morning.”

  Lynch worked to rein in his temper. “You also said I could take the weekend.”

  She blew out a breath. “I had no idea if you were dead or what.”

  “Is that concern I hear in your voice?”

  She snorted. “Hardly concern for you, Callan. My only concern is this mission. Speaking of which, what have you discovered about Blackwell?”

  His turn to scoff. “What the hell do you expect me to do? Cop a squat and shit out information on this guy?”

  “If necessary, that’s exactly what I expect.” Her tone held a steely edge.

  “Well sorry for ya, counselor.” Sarcasm laced his words. “But things don’t work that way.”

  “You better make them work otherwise you, along with all your biker buddies and your mother, will go to prison. Understand?”

  Rubbing his eyes, Lynch bit back a scathing retort. He understood the stakes just fine…his freedom, and the freedom of everyone he cared about. “Look, I asked questions at the party and that raised eyebrows. You said not to do that, right?”

  She sighed. “I know.” She suddenly sounded very tired. “It’s just that two fourteen-year-old girls from Reno were reported missing.”

  Lynch sat taller. “When?”

  “Friday night. They were walking home from a neighborhood market. Witnesses reported seeing a dark colored van cruising the area. No license plate.”

  “What time?”

  “Around ten. Why?”

  “Could be nothing, but Rolo had an intense conversation with Junkyard Taylor after you and Newman left, and Rolo definitely didn’t seem happy about the outcome.” Rustling filled his ear, like Jarvis jostled her phone.

  “Who’s Junkyard Taylor?”

  “The new Streeter VP.”

  “The guy you had words with at the party?”

  “Yeah. Him and his goon, Bowyer, came down from Vancouver, Washington about five years ago. Right about the time all those girls started missing. Like I said, it might be just a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Neither did Lynch. “Then Junkyard and Bowyer split.”

  “To go where?”

  “Dunno, but Rolo said it had to do with club business.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “That’s it. I’m headed to the MC this afternoon to see what I can dig up.”

  “Good. I’ll do the same on this end. We’ll touch base later tonight. Oh, and you’d better answer my calls from now on.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, counselor.”

  The line went dead. Lynch laid in bed for another few minutes, taking in the reality of actually being out of prison. Up to this point, he hadn’t had the chance to absorb his circumstances.

  He was home, with his mom and his crew. Things were different—Christ, things were hell-a different. Like the fucked up situation with the missing girls. And the more messed up shit with Flyer…

  A knot formed in Lynch’s throat at the thought of never seeing Flyer again. He shouldn’t be dead. He should be in the house right now, arguing with his mom about stupid old man, old lady shit. But he wasn’t.

  And if it hadn’t been for the dumb luck of some fisherman, the FBI never would have contacted Lynch. And he never would’ve learned about Flyer or his supposed “leaving” the Streeters.

  No brother deserved to end up in Pyramid Lake, especially Flyer. He’d been a good man. A good brother. A good…father. Lynch blinked at the burn in his eyes.

  In a brisk move, he scrubbed his hand over his face, his sorrow morphing into anger, then into rage. He’d ferret out the truth behind Flyer’s murder, if it was the last thing he did. He owed the man that much. And if Lynch found out Junkyard or Bowyer—or even Rolo—had anything to do with Flyer’s death…well…God help them. Because Lynch sure as hell wouldn’t.

  He stood and padded into the small bathroom to pee. After the sex marathon, he figured a shower should be the next order of business. His first private shower in over seven years. His lips curved into a grin as he set the water temperature to nuclear.

  Ninety minutes later, after using all the hot water and devouring half of his favorite casserole his mom left in the fridge, Lynch squatted beside his Harley in the driveway, an open toolbox to his right. While he didn’t question Mick’s job fixing up his ride, he nevertheless checked the oil and transmission lube. It was like reacquainting himself with an old lover. Relearning all her ins and outs. Remembering what she liked and didn’t like.

  The temperature was chilly even in the bright sunlight. His fingers and tips of his ears grew numb, but he didn’t care. It felt amazing to be outside without a fence or guard tower anywhere in sight, hearing the low rumble of passing cars and the distant howl of a train whistle.

  When he finished tinkering with his Harley, he closed up the toolbox and stowed it in the garage. He returned to his bike, intent on riding to the
clubhouse to dig into recent Streeter activity, and saw five cars—two of them belonging to the sheriff’s department—blocking his access to the street.

  Lynch recognized most of the half dozen men milling around the vehicles from high school. While he didn’t know the deputy sheriff, there was no mistaking Dell Albright as he leaned against the hood of one squad car. Wearing a sheriff’s jacket and khaki pants, Shasta’s older brother didn’t look all that different from seven years ago, except maybe for the cane beside him. Dell grabbed it then made his way up the gently sloped driveway.

  Conflicting emotions swirled through Lynch as Dell limped toward him. On one hand, Lynch’s animosity toward Dell hadn’t diminished in the years since they were classmates. On the other, seeing the physical toll taken on Dell generated sincere…empathy for the guy. Lynch remembered Dell as the state record holder for the hundred yard dash. In high school, he’d been so athletic, and fast. But now…

  Dell stopped, one hand on his cane, the other on his gun. “Morning.”

  Lynch stared into the mirrored sunglasses, both grateful and not because he didn’t have his Glock on him. “Dell.”

  “It’s Sheriff Albright when I’m on duty.”

  “So you’re here in an official capacity?”

  “Yep.” Dell shifted and his mouth thinned. “I need you to come to the stationhouse.”

  Lynch’s belly tightened. “Why?”

  “So we can…catch up.”

  “Am I being charged?”

  “No.” Even with the sunglasses, Lynch felt Dell’s deadly glare. “Unless you decline my request. Then I’ll have something to charge you with.”

  Lynch observed the deputy and other men closing ranks around Dell. Six against one. Given the odds, he had no chance.

  There’d once been a time in Lynch’s life when he would’ve been stupid enough—when he would’ve said fuck it—and attacked like a madman, with or without a gun.

  But that was prior to his prison education. In the joint, he learned hard, fast and in a fucking hurry it was better to surrender than fight a losing battle. Because fighting and losing held more consequences than simply capitulating. He pulled his cell from his pocket. “Mind if I call my lawyer and have her meet us there?”

  Dell plucked the phone from Lynch’s grasp. “You can call once you’re there.” He eased to the side. “Let’s go.”

  *

  Early Monday afternoon, Shasta blasted the radio as she drove along the highway. The snow-capped peaks of the Sierra towered in front of her. They looked so pretty this time of year, with the contrast between the white and the multiple shades of brown. In another month or two, the snow would be gone and the brown would become even more diverse. Off to her left, a red-tailed hawk hovered above a cow pasture, looking for his lunch. Despite the serenity of the scene, suspicion nipped at her.

  Given how freaked-out Dell had been about Lynch’s release on Friday, a feather could have knocked her over when her brother sent her to Reno for office supplies—alone.

  Although she’d argued they had more than enough coffee, coffee filters, print cartridges and paper clips to last another month, Dell insisted she go, making her more leery.

  And her brother spent the weekend on patrol which piled onto her mistrust. While he’d stayed with her and Wyatt at night, and assigned a squad car to watch the house during the day, that didn’t explain why—with his bad leg—he’d spent hours in the tight confines of a car. She knew lack of movement increased his pain exponentially. So why had he submitted himself to that kind of agony, plus send her on this wholly unnecessary outing to Reno?

  The timing between Dell’s odd behavior and Lynch being released couldn’t be ignored. But her brother wouldn’t be so stupid as to do something to Lynch…would he?

  She slowed her car and pulled onto the off ramp.

  No. It was just a coincidence. Nothing more. Besides, Lynch had a lawyer who would ensure he didn’t get harassed. Or so she hoped.

  She decelerated more upon entering Stardust’s city limits. Two turns and one stop light later, she pulled into a spot at the sheriff’s department.

  Usually the number of cars in the parking lot could be counted on three fingers—six if they were busy. But over a dozen vehicles populated the asphalt space…very odd. She cut the engine, unclicked her seatbelt then grabbed the plastic bags from the backseat. She hustled up the walkway as the biting, northerly wind kicked up. It might be May, but the weather felt more winter-like than spring.

  The interior temperature made the exterior temperature feel balmy. Everyone wore jackets while a few folks sported hats. And a number of extra people loitered in the squad room.

  She stopped at the dispatcher’s desk. “Joan, what’s going on? Why isn’t the heat on and what are all these people doing here?”

  Joan, who wore fingerless mittens with a matching knitted cap and scarf, shrugged. “Dell said the furnace is on the fritz and I don’t have any idea why everybody’s here, but they’ve been going in and out of the Sheriff’s office and the interview room all morning.”

  Shasta adjusted her hold on the bags. “Where’s Dell?”

  A burst of laughter turned her head. Her brother, along with several guys she remembered running track with Dell in high school, walked out of the viewing room. If she needed further proof something was amiss, this was it.

  Shasta dumped the bags on Joan’s desk. “Please take this stuff to the break room. I’ll put everything away in a minute.” She beelined across the room to where Dell stood, surrounded by his smiling friends. As she approached, his wide grin faded from his face.

  He murmured something and everyone scattered like cockroaches in a flashlight beam. “Hey, sis,” he said in a sugary tone.

  She crossed her arms. “What’s going on?”

  His eyes widened in feigned surprise. “Nothing.”

  “Baloney.” She pointed to the door he exited. “What’s going on in there?”

  Dell’s amicable demeanor vanished. “Like I said, nothing.” He reached for her arm, as though to lead her away, but she dodged his grip and rushed past him. “What the fu—Shasta…wait.”

  Just inside the room, Shasta stopped so abruptly, Dell rammed into her. Stunned astonishment tore through her as she stared at the person standing on the other side of the one-way mirror.

  Lynch Callan.

  A naked Lynch Callan.

  But before her brain could fully process that reality, it registered a bluish tint to his lips and the fact he visibly shivered. And all the odd happenings of the day fell into place…

  Her “essential” trip to Reno. The furnace being on the “fritz.” Her brother’s friends populating in the squad room…

  She whirled around. Dell stood there, his posse crowded behind him, and he almost looked sheepish. Almost.

  “What the fuck have you done?” she demanded.

  Dell’s eyeballs practically jumped out of their sockets. In high school, Shasta could swear a sailor under the table, but it had been years since she uttered anything more profane than damn.

  Her brother recovered enough to point to the glass. “Nothing that bastard doesn’t deserve.”

  She leaned forward, unable to believe the words coming from his mouth. “Deserve? Did you just say he deserves this treatment?”

  One of Dell’s buddies piped up, “You know he does, Shasta.”

  She cut her gaze to him. “Am I talking to you, Allen? No? Then be quiet. In fact, get out.” She waved her arms. “All of you. Get the hell outta here.”

  After a moment of shocked silence, the mob quickly backed out of the viewing room. Shasta slammed the door shut then turned.

  A thunderous cloud had settled on her brother’s face. “Just who do you think you are?”

  “I’m your sister,” Shasta shot back, “and apparently the only one in this room with a working brain.” She tunneled her fingers through her hair and spun away, a growl snagging in her throat. “Jesus, Dell. Is this why you’ve
been on patrol? So you could pick Lynch up and treat him like your personal freak show? How could you?”

  “Are you actually defending that fucker? After what he did to me?”

  “So this is your answer? Petty revenge?”

  “It’s not petty.”

  “Then you admit you went looking for payback. Do you have any idea how stupid this is?”

  “I did it to send a message.”

  “Really?” She cocked a hip. “What message? That you’re an idiot?”

  He glowered. “That he’d better not mess with me or my family.” Dell sliced his gaze to the man behind the glass. “Because if he does, this will only be the beginning of the shit storm I’ll cause him.”

  She blew out a harsh sigh. “You need to get him his clothes and release him.”

  “No.”

  Shasta’s mouth dropped open. She stared at her brother, but it was like looking at a stranger. She knew Dell was bitter about the past, but the extent of his vitriol staggered her. To abuse his office and authority this way was not how her brother would act. She whipped out her cell. “I’ll call the local newspaper and TV stations.”

  “And tell them what?” he goaded.

  She narrowed her eyes. “That the sheriff of Grant County is trampling on someone’s civil rights.”

  Dell’s expression melted into anger. He grabbed for her phone then wobbled, caught off balance because of his cane. She easily evaded his grasp.

  “No one will believe a convicted criminal over a sheriff,” her brother stated.

  “Not even with the support of that sheriff’s sister?”

  His stare turned icy. “You wouldn’t…”

  “I would—and will—unless you release him. Now.”

  “You’d side…with him?” He jabbed his finger at the glass. “Instead of your own brother?”

  “If my brother’s acting like a total douche, yes. If he’s thrown all his ethics and morals of the sheriff’s position—a position our father held—into a dung heap, yes.” She knew it was a low blow to bring up their dad, but she didn’t care. She shook her head with a sigh. “Christ, Dell…you could lose your job. Think about the repercussions to your career. To Dad’s legacy. You need to let him go.”