On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  Dell adjusted his stance. “And if I refuse?”

  She waved her phone in the air. “Then I’ll call the press. Either release Lynch or be prepared to be on the six o’clock news. Your choice.”

  A wound look flitted over her brother’s face, then he glared. “I don’t believe you’d do that.”

  “Believe it.”

  He flattened his lips and pivoted to the door.

  “And Dell…”

  “What?” he ground out not bothering to look at her.

  “Get the heat back on.”

  Spine straight, he limped out, closing the door harder than necessary. Once alone, Shasta focused her attention on Lynch. She stepped forward and lightly touched her fingertips to the mirrored glass.

  Tears burned her eyes. He looked thinner. Thinner, yet bigger. More rawboned. Sinewy.

  Powerful.

  The chairs had been removed from the room and he stood behind the bolted-down table, head high and wrists handcuffed. He cupped his genitals with both hands and glared at the mirror. Apparently he hadn’t lost any volume down there.

  He could’ve turned his back to garner a small measure of privacy, but that wasn’t Lynch’s way. To hell with the world, that was his motto.

  His shaggy ash blond hair had lost the sun-streaked highlights she remembered from so long ago. And the scraggly beard covering his cleft chin looked darker than his hair. His collarbone jutted across his upper chest like some kind of weird, tribal piercing while his broad shoulders seemed broader or maybe it was because his waist appeared more narrow.

  He carried the same tattoos…his mom’s name, in a large cursive font embellished the front of his neck and a black Celtic cross—with a green shamrock in the middle—decorated his left shoulder. Another Celtic symbol adorned his left upper chest area while the Streeter tat…a snake slithering through the eyes of a skull…dominated his right shoulder with the words Learn Through Pain scrawled on that same forearm. And she knew a picture of Gabriel kneeling beside a crumbling cross inked his entire back.

  He looked so different, yet so much like he had seven years ago. Especially his eyes. Those smoky blue eyes were the same. Still mesmerizing. The same eyes as his son…

  Sudden flashes of Lynch’s smile—of his kiss and touch—bombarded Shasta. Of her body twined with his. Joined with his.

  Her cheeks burned at the vivid memories…and her innocence at having fallen in love with a Streeter. She’d been innocent and so very dumb. He was a gangster. A criminal. And she could never share a life with a criminal…

  Todd entered the interview room, a bundle of clothes in his hands, interrupting her unruly thoughts. A gentle whirling indicated the furnace was back on. Shasta waited long enough to see the deputy unlocked the handcuffs on Lynch’s wrists before turning away. She wiped the moisture from her cheeks, inhaled a breath and walked into the squad room.

  Everything appeared normal. No superfluous people. Just a typical afternoon. Dell sat hunched over his desk. In the break room, she put away the supplies, keeping a diligent eye out on the interview room door.

  Soon, a woman Shasta didn’t recognize, wearing form-fitting slacks, a white turtleneck and short denim jacket, marched into the Dell’s office. By the woman’s emphatic gesturing and finger pointing, Shasta figured she was upset about something. Her brother simply sat there, his face like granite.

  The woman snatched up a leather garment—Lynch’s motorcycle cut—and stormed from the office, and immediately into the interview room. She emerged again, Lynch right behind her, his Streeter jacket gripped in his hand. Despite his t-shirt being untucked, Shasta could tell his jeans rode low on his hips.

  His angry gaze swept the squad room. She quickly ducked behind the door, her heart in her throat. Had he seen her? It made no sense to hide. In a small town like Stardust, they were bound to run into each other at some point. Still, she’d prefer that point not be today. A moment later, she peeked back around and watched the duo head for the entrance.

  Just before he exited, Lynch threw on his cut. A defiant gesture considering gang colors and garments were prohibited in the stationhouse.

  The woman placed her palm on the center of Lynch’s back, and a wave of possessiveness scorched through Shasta.

  Who the hell was she? Lynch’s girlfriend? But how could he have girlfriend…he’d been in prison for the last seven years.

  Maybe she was a convict bunny. Someone with a fetish for inmates. Maybe she and Lynch had started out as pen pals then moved onto to pals…with conjugal benefits.

  Shasta pulled herself up short. She had no right to feel jealous of Lynch and another woman. Yet she did. A lot.

  And that bothered her even more….

  Chapter Seven

  THE NEXT MORNING, after dropping Wyatt off at school, Shasta drove to the stationhouse, Dell in the passenger seat. Without the six-year-old’s constant chatter, the quiet in the small car thudded against her eardrums.

  She and Dell hadn’t exchanged three words since yesterday afternoon. The last time she had defied him she’d been in high school…on Ditch Day when he’d grounded her from going to Lake Tahoe with her friends. While she hated being at odds with her brother, she refused to apologize. If anyone should say he was sorry, it was Dell. And fat chance of that happening.

  But squabbling with Dell accounted for only part of Shasta’s pensiveness. She’d checked behind the detached garage last night, as well as that morning, unable to locate the box of personal items Hez said he’d gather for her.

  Not that there was anything of value. Just junk. Trinkets Lynch had given her or silly mementos she’d accumulated all those years ago. She’d stashed everything at Lynch’s trailer because she didn’t want either Graham or Wyatt stumbling across them. Now, with Lynch getting out, she didn’t want him knowing she’d been at his place. Somehow that prospect made her feel…wild, like she had been as a teenager. And she wasn’t wild anymore.

  She texted Hez before getting into the shower, but had yet to hear back. Once she got to work, she’d text him again. She pulled into Dell’s parking space and killed the engine. Her cell twittered with a new message. But it wasn’t from Hez. She typed a quick reply then unclipped her seatbelt.

  “Who was that?” Dell asked.

  She didn’t bother looking at him as she reached into the backseat to grab her purse. “Graham.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s grand. Graham finished his business early and will be home tomorrow.” She got out then waited while Dell clumsily exited the car before hitting the door lock and turning.

  “Dell!”

  The shout turned them both.

  Adam marched forward, stopping inches from her brother’s face. Agitation billowed off the normally disciplined DA. “Just what the hell did you do?”

  Dell leaned on his cane, his expression guarded. “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about?” Adam parroted. “I talking about the fact that after I spend all-goddamn-day yesterday in federal court in Reno trying to get Callan back behind bars, I return to my office to find a myriad of messages from Emma Jarvis.”

  “Who’s Emma Jarvis?” Shasta asked.

  Adam dissected her with a disdainful look. “Callan’s lawyer.” He returned his glare to Dell. “She’s threatening a lawsuit for illegally hauling in Callan then detaining him for over three hours without notifying her.”

  So the woman’s his lawyer…

  Shasta figured she should squelch her relief. Just because the Jarvis woman was Lynch’s lawyer didn’t mean they weren’t involved. Though that constituted an ethical no-no, didn’t it?

  Dell puffed out his chest. “I had cause to bring him in.”

  “Really? And what cause did you have for putting him on display—naked?”

  The starch evaporated from Dell’s stance. “Shit. She told you about that?”

  Adam snorted. “If she had, would you be standing here now? Or would your sorr
y ass be out of a job and facing serious misconduct charges?”

  Dell frowned. “Then how’d you know?”

  “You didn’t exactly keep it a secret. Parading half the town through the interview room.” Adam shook his head. “What in God’s name were you thinking to pull such a dick stunt?”

  Dell brushed a glimpse at Shasta, saying nothing.

  The DA eyeballed her then glowered at her brother. “I get that you want justice. Vengeance even. But not this way, understand?”

  Dell sighed with a nod. “Yeah, I understand. Won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” Adam snapped. “I’ve worked too long and too hard to have you fuck things up now.”

  Dell’s eyebrows shot up. “What things?”

  A flush stained Adam’s neck. “Nothing I’m at liberty to discuss. But when I can, you’ll be the first one I…brief.” He turned then pivoted back. “Oh, and one more thing, Jarvis wants to interview both of you along with Graham for her investigation.”

  Alarm stiffened Shasta’s posture. “Why me?”

  Her stomach curdled under Adam’s scrutiny. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Just give her your cooperation.” He cut his gaze to Dell. “Both of you.”

  Shasta watched the DA stomped off.

  I wonder what things Adam can’t discuss.

  “I wonder that too.”

  She jumped a foot at her brother’s voice in her ear. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud.

  Dell stared after Adam. “But what bugs me even more is why Callan’s lawyer didn’t rat me out completely about yesterday.”

  “Maybe because Lynch never told her the whole truth about what happened.”

  Dell grunted. “Oh, he told her all right.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because it fits the pattern for a lowlife like him, and his lowlife attorney.” Dell limped up the sidewalk.

  She fell into step beside him. “What do you mean, the pattern?”

  “They think they’ve got information on me that’ll turn into some kind of a payday for them.”

  “Uh, they do have information on you. And, according to Adam, half the town knows it.”

  He paused in opening the entrance door to direct his most withering stare at her. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  She breezed past him. “You’re welcome.”

  *

  Lynch folded then placed clothing in his duffle.

  “But why do you hafta leave?” his mother asked yet again. She paced the garage bedroom, wringing her hands. “You can’t let that asshole sheriff run you out.”

  “He’s not, Ma. I swear.” He ducked into the small bathroom to gather up his toothpaste, toothbrush and deodorant. He didn’t want his mom dealing with any fallout from his run-in with the sheriff—especially if he revealed the truth about what actually happened. But he didn’t need any payback on Albright. It wouldn’t restore his dignity. He’d probably only lose more of it. And the repercussions could land hard on his mom. He walked back into the bedroom and dropped the toiletries into his bag. “I just think I should stay at my trailer. It’ll mean less heat for you.”

  “Harrumph.” His mother plopped onto the bed. “I ain’t worried about any heat.” She plucked at the frayed quilt. “It’s just been so…quiet around here since…”

  “Flyer left?” he finished gently, checking his Glock then tucking it into his waistband.

  Still focused on the quilt thread, she nodded.

  Lynch eased onto the mattress beside her. “Did you notice anything…strange about Flyer’s behavior before he…left?”

  Her posture stiffened. “You mean other than him being a cheating, two-timing bastard?” Her shoulders stooped again. “No. But…”

  “But?”

  “He just seemed damned…depressed the six, eight months before he left. Disappointed somehow. Other times, he was so pissed, I thought he’d go on a statewide shooting spree.”

  A sad smile lifted Lynch’s lips. Flyer did have one hellacious temper.

  “And secretive,” his mom continued, staring into space. “Good God, the man acted worse than a Cold War spy. Mysterious as shit and seriously neurotic about me.”

  “What’d you mean, neurotic about you?”

  “He didn’t want me going to the salon by myself or working late. At the time, I thought it sweet…him showing how much he loved me. Then he just…left.” Her voice hitched and she bowed her head.

  Lynch wrapped an arm around his mother’s quaking shoulders and hugged her tight. His heart broke. Flyer hadn’t left. He’d been taken. “What can you tell me about Tre Olsen?”

  She sat upright with a sniffle. “He and Flyer got real tight. I think that’s the reason Tre and Junkyard were sent up to Idaho.” She wagged her head. “Only Junkyard came back, though. Tre rolled his bike under a semi on the ride home. Such a shame to have lost him like that.”

  Not a shame, but murder. Same as Flyer…

  “Ma, what you think of Junkyard and Bowyer?”

  Her lips twisted in a smirk. “As an old lady for twenty plus years, it’s not my place to judge club members. Especially the officers.”

  “But you must have an opinion.”

  “‘Course I do.”

  He gave her an expectant look.

  “Well…Junkyard’s smart and oilier than a greased hog. Bowyer’s just flat crazy. I don’t trust either of them. And I don’t think Rolo does either.”

  That surprised Lynch. “If that’s true, then why the fuck is Junkyard the VP?”

  “You’ll hafta ask Rolo. What I can say is Rolo’s taken up where Flyer left off being all kinds of paranoid about my safety.”

  Everything inside Lynch stilled. “Why’s that, Ma?”

  “Again you’ll hafta ask him. In my opinion it’s just stupid old men turning into stupid old worrywart women.” She stared at his duffle. “Isn’t there anything I can say that’ll get you to stay here? Nobody’s been at that trailer since you went inside. It’s probably nothing but a shit-hole mess. I bet raccoons won’t even live in it.”

  Forcing a chuckle, he kissed her cheek. “Okay, Ma. You win. I’ll stay.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

  He stood and started removing the items from his bag. “Really.”

  If Flyer, then Rolo, thought his mom was in danger, then she must have been.

  Which meant she most likely still was.

  *

  Once he’d safety deposited his mom at her salon, Lynch rode to the outskirts of Stardust.

  He had every intention of keeping his word and staying with her, but he also wanted to see for himself just what kind of a “shit-hole mess” his trailer was. Situated on the very edge of Bureau of Land Management land, there weren’t any utilities because he squatted on federal property. But he had a gas powered generator for electricity which made the fifth-wheel livable. However, with it vacant for so long, he could only imagine the disaster that awaited him. Raccoons no doubt would be the least of his worries.

  Yet checking the status of his trailer was only part of his reasoning for going there. The other part—the bigger part—had to do with the momentary glimpse he’d gotten of Shasta the previous day, at the sheriff’s office. And with the feelings seven years behind bars should’ve killed, but didn’t.

  Feelings of belonging…and love.

  He’d never considered Shasta a piece of ass. Some girl to fuck then forget. No. Shasta Donahue Albright was anything but forgettable. Her daring, smart-mouthed, impulsive, yet romantic ways impressed the hell out of him. She’d been the best damn thing to ever come into his life.

  Spending time with her was as easy as breathing, and just as vital. She taught him to laugh more and judge less. Her boundless zest for adventure astonished him. As did her bravery. She never hesitated to call him on his bullshit, notwithstanding his reputation as a known criminal. She made him want to be a better man.

  A better man for her.

  He’
d even begun to naïvely think they could have a future together. That he could leave the Streeters and be accepted into her world of law and order. God, he’d been such a fool.

  Still he wanted…no needed…to go where he and Shasta had rendezvoused. Where they’d found the privacy to share their deepest dreams, their worst fears, their first kiss—and more.

  Lynch understood he couldn’t go back. No one could. But maybe, just maybe, he could recapture an inkling of the innocence he’d once felt with Shasta.

  If only for a moment.

  He slowed his motorcycle to maneuver around the potholes on the dirt road leading to his trailer. A mix of Ponderosa and juniper pine trees rose up on either side of him. The brisk, clean morning air filled his lungs. He rounded the last bend and eased to a stop. There sat his house on wheels…in all its peckerwood glory.

  While it needed a hard power washing and a major clearing of the slew of gigantic sagebrush which reached halfway up the siding, the thirty-foot trailer actually appeared in fairly decent shape. Confusion narrowed his eyes. How was that possible?

  Considering the amount of time he’d been away, the place should have been a pile of debris. Unease tightened his gut. Had someone taken up residence in his place? Been squatting on his squat? Because no way, after being vacant for seven years, should his fifth wheel look this good.

  He cruised to the far side of the trailer, cut the engine and swung his leg over the seat. He removed his helmet and gloves, slipped his hand under his jacket to grasp the Glock grip, then circled back around, surveying the area.

  The surrounding foliage looked much denser than he remembered, but the birds twittered their carefree songs. Maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe his stint in prison had made him overly cautious. But he’d learned in prison not to disregard his gut. If you did, you ended up dead.

  He edged to the trailer door and reached down behind the cinderblock step for his hide-a-key rock. He’d just extracted the key when the low rumbling sound of an approaching Harley had him ducking back next to his bike.