On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  Flat against the aluminum, he peered under the trailer nose, and tightened his hold on his gun. Who the fuck followed him? Junkyard? Bowyer? Had his arrangement with the FBI been discovered?

  The answer came as Hez steered into view, the tangle of his dreadlocks sticking out from under his half helmet. With a sigh of relief, Lynch emerged. Hez pulled to an abrupt halt, surprise plainly written on his face despite his sunglasses.

  Lynch ambled over and slid his handgun back into his waistband. “What are you doing here, bro? You talk to my mom?”

  Hez took an inordinate amount of time removing his glasses. “Uh…no. But when you weren’t at her place or the clubhouse, I figured you’d be here. Thought you were staying with her.”

  “I am. Just came up here to scope things out.” Lynch’s gaze again wandered the vicinity. “You been staying here?”

  Hez coughed, his complexion paling. “Why you asking?”

  “Because the place looks in way better shape than I expected.” He stared at his friend. “And definitely better than you. Anything wrong?”

  “Nah. Wanna grab some breakfast? My treat.”

  Lynch furrowed his eyebrows. “Sounds great, but don’t you hafta work?”

  Hez shook his head. “Got called in over the weekend. I’m not back on the schedule until tomorrow.” He shifted on the bike. “So, breakfast…how about Mert’s Cafe?”

  “Sure.” Lynch tossed the trailer key in the air then caught it. “First I want to check the inside of this beast.”

  “Can’t you do that later?”

  He eyed his best friend. It wasn’t like Hez to be so…edgy. “I could, but I’m here now. You sure nothing’s wrong?”

  “Yeah, it’s all good.” Hez fiddled with his sunglasses, not looking up. “Just hungry.”

  “Well, as my momma likes to say, you’ll get fed soon enough.” Walking to the trailer, Hez surprised him by grabbing his sleeve. Lynch hadn’t heard him get off his Harley.

  “C’mon, man.” Hez sounded desperate. “Let’s bail and get some grub.”

  Lynch shook off the hand with a scowl. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” He inserted the key and opened the door. “This’ll only take a minute.” He stepped inside.

  The first thing he noticed was how clean everything looked. No dirty dishes cluttered the sink or the small counter. Not his normal MO. He only ever did the dishes when he knew Shasta was coming over. And the last time she’d done that had been almost a week before he got arrested.

  The second thing to snag is attention was the smell. It sure didn’t smell like his trailer had been locked up for seven years. A slight floral scent, mixed with an earthy accent, teased his nose—and his subconscious.

  Apparently Hez had been staying here, but didn’t want Lynch to know. Weird considering whatever belonged to one belonged to the other. They were brothers after all.

  Lynch pocketed the key, his gaze lighting on the built-in table, and the box on top. Curious, he opened the flaps.

  And a torrent of memories battered him. Memories of…Shasta.

  The hodgepodge of items…everything from used wrapping paper, faded ribbons, a stuffed baby seal toy, a photo strip from a carnival photo booth, a red velvet necklace box…inundated him with flashes of her smile and fragments of her laugh.

  With calculated calm, he picked up the jewelry box and flicked it open, but he already knew what lay inside. A silver heart-shaped pendant on a twenty-four inch chain. An engraved rose embossed one side with the inscription To S from L on the other.

  His gift to Shasta for her eighteenth birthday—and the day he took her virginity.

  Hez’s bizarre behavior—his nervousness and insistence on going to breakfast—it all made sense now. As did the familiar and persistent flowery aroma in the air. It was the lingering fragrance of Shasta’s perfume, mingled with the musky undertone of sex.

  Sex she’d had with Hez.

  Blood pounded in Lynch’s ears and his vision clouded. Slowly he crawled his gaze to Hez who stood in the narrow doorway, a bright red staining his cheeks.

  “I can explain.”

  “Explain?” Lynch fisted the necklace tightly in his hand. “Explain what? That you’ve been fucking Shasta?”

  Hez’s expression hardened. “It wasn’t like that. We never—”

  A feral bellow blistered past Lynch’s lips as he charged. He plowed his shoulder into his friend’s midsection, driving them both out the door. Hez hit the ground with a loud grunt. Lynch straddled his chest and pummeled his face.

  His friend—his best goddamn friend and the man he’d asked to look after Shasta—had been fucking her while he sat in prison. There were some things brothers did not share.

  Pain ricocheted up Lynch’s arms with each delivered blow. Air scraped his throat. His pulse pounded. His hands turned numb from the punching, but he didn’t ease off the beating.

  Not one bit.

  He reared up, ready to smash his fist clean through Hez’s skull, but stopped. It finally sank into his fury-filled brain that his friend wasn’t fighting back. And at two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier, Hez could’ve easily pitched Lynch onto his ass.

  Breathing hard, Lynch heaved himself off Hez and pressed his fist to his forehead. Something bit into his palm. He opened his hand to reveal Shasta’s necklace.

  Hez sat up. “Feel better?”

  Lynch glared. “Don’t fucking talk to me.”

  “You told me to look out for her.”

  “But not to fuck her.”

  “I told you, it wasn’t like that.” Hez spat out blood then dabbed at his lip. “Look, brother—”

  Lynch scrambled to his feet. “I am not your brother. Brothers don’t do what you did. They don’t betray—”

  Emotions clogged his chest. He refused to dwell on the cruel irony of his own deception to the Streeters and Hez’s to him. The situations were different. Absolutely and completely different.

  Lynch stared down at his former friend—his former brother. Blood trickled from Hez’s nose, the cut over his left eye and his bottom lip.

  Anger still heated Lynch’s blood. But rather than continue to pound the living shit out of Hez—which he wanted to do—he pivoted, stuffing the necklace into the breast pocket of his cut as he marched to his bike.

  “Where are you going?” Hez called after him.

  Lynch grabbed his helmet. “Gonna return this necklace to its rightful owner.”

  A hand clamped onto his shoulder and whirled him back around.

  Hez stood there. “I can’t let you do that, man.”

  Something deadly snapped inside of Lynch. He whipped out his gun.

  His former best friend’s arms shot up. “Whoa, man. You’re gonna shoot me now?”

  “Thinking about it.” Lynch adjusted his grip on the Glock. “Back off.”

  Hez shook his head. “I can’t let you go. Not when you’re this pissed.”

  Pissed? He past pissed light years ago.

  Lynch’s finger itched to squeeze the trigger. “I should gun you down like the mangy hound dog you are. You knew how I felt about Shasta. You were the…” His voice cracked, his eyelids suddenly hot and gummy…

  Christ.

  Scrubbing an angry hand across his face, Lynch pulled in a rickety breath. “You were the only one who knew about her. I trusted you.”

  Hez slowly dropped his arms. “Let me explain. Then, if you still want to, you can shoot me.”

  Lynch stiffened his arm. “Don’t tempt me.”

  Tense seconds ticked by. Finally Lynch lowered his gun and smiled, a big I-couldn’t-give-a-shit smile. “Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters.” He dug the necklace from his pocket and tossed it into the dirt at Hez’s feet. “Give it back to the skank next time you fuck her.” He buckled on his helmet while throwing his leg over his motorcycle. He revved the motor.

  Hez bent down to retrieve the trinket. “You got it all wrong, man,” he shouted over the engine noise. “
Seriously wrong.”

  Lynch popped the clutch and lurched his bike onto its rear wheel. Balanced on the single tire, he roared past Hez, kicking up gravel and small rocks in his wake. At the dirt road, he slammed onto the front wheel and raced down the hill. Too bad he couldn’t outrace the feelings of deceit which flooded his veins.

  He’d been right—he couldn’t go back. Not ever. All he could do was secure the evidence Jarvis needed, then hope like hell he could move beyond all this drama.

  Beyond Hez and Shasta and maybe even beyond the Streeters too. Because he didn’t have a home in Stardust. Not anymore.

  Chapter Eight

  I STARE AT the computer monitor straining to hear what’s going on outside Callan’s decrepit trailer. Nothing intelligible. Just garbled sounds. I wish I’d been smart enough to install an exterior camera.

  Not much surprises me anymore, but I sat in shocked silence watching the exchange between Callan and Hez. The revelation on Callan’s face when he thought Hez had fucked Shasta…priceless. Fucking priceless.

  Then for those two to start brawling put the cherry on my sundae. The situation couldn’t have worked out better had I planned it myself. I can only hope they’re killing each other right now.

  A knock lands on my office door.

  Christ.

  I cut the laptop’s volume. “What?” I snap.

  The new blonde with the big tits and skinny waist sticks her head inside. She looks scared, and she should. It didn’t end well for the last bimbo who displeased me.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Blackwell…Junkyard Taylor is here.”

  “Fine.” I wave her out. “Five minutes.”

  Once the door is shut, I increase the volume again in time to hear a roaring sound. What’s that? A motorcycle? Silence fills the air and I tense in my chair. A few moments later, Hez stumbles into the trailer and grabs the box.

  His face looks like someone beat him with a mallet. I can’t help but smile as I close my laptop. I then pull sunglasses, a surgical mask and beret from a right-hand desk drawer. God, I hate this ridiculous getup, but can’t chance anyone from Stardust discovering my true identity. Just like Batman. I chuckle to myself. As if Batman could ever be as brilliant as me.

  After donning my costume, I hit the intercom button to my receptionist. “Send him in.”

  Moments later, Junkyard struts into my office. “Mr. Blackwell.”

  I frown at the dust coating his clothes as he slouches in the suede chair across from my desk, but harness my irritation. “Was the shipment delivered?” I remove a manila envelope from the center drawer.

  “Yes, sir.” Junkyard perches an ankle on the opposite knee. “Though Fuentes’s man wasn’t happy only three of the twelve-year-olds were cherries.” He shakes his head. “Kids are fucking so early these days…soon the only virgins to be had will be goddamn eight-year-olds.

  I pause in checking the contents of the envelope. “Then we’ll get goddamn eight-year-olds. You got a problem with that?”

  Junkyard sits taller. “No sir.”

  I toss the envelope onto the desktop, watching him snatch it up like a shark feasting on chub. “Were there any problems?”

  Junkyard thumbs through a thick stack of twenties. “No,” he mumbles, his focus on counting his booty. “Wait…there was one thing.”

  Annoyance tightens my skin. “What one thing?”

  “Nothing with the delivery,” the moron says in a rush. “It’s just Rolo Pruett threw his back out on the ride down here. He’s probably gonna be laid up for a couple of days. Stupid old man. I don’t know why we just don’t put him out of his misery.”

  “Because that’s not what I want.” I raise an eyebrow in silent challenge.

  Junkyard blinks then clears his throat. “Of course, Mr. Blackwell. Whatever you say.”

  Damn straight.

  I swivel my chair. “Put Pruett in the usual Motel 6 and have one of the men stay with him. I want the rest of you back in Stardust tonight.” I glance at the list on my desk. “The Idaho crew has four girls ready to go, Oregon has eight and Washington has another half dozen.” I set the paper aside. “I want as many girls for this next shipment as possible so get on it, understand?”

  Junkyard stands. “Understood.”

  He leaves and I open my ledger, making several notations then checking the balance sheet.

  While the last few shipments haven’t been as profitable as I would have liked, that shouldn’t interfere with my plan of ending my business dealings with Fuentes. I anticipate the Columbian will be less than pleased with my decision, but it can’t be helped. It’s time I prioritized my life.

  I close the book with a sigh. Yes…in another month—maybe two—and I’ll be on a sunny, tropical beach.

  With Shasta by my side.

  Chapter Nine

  ON TUESDAY EVENING, the breeze fluttered through Shasta’s hair as she waited with Wyatt and Graham for the handicap van to show up outside the Reno airport.

  “How could your brother have allowed you two to come to Reno alone?” Graham’s repeated question grated her nerves. “I thought we agreed it wasn’t safe.” He glanced over at Wyatt. “Under the current circumstances,” he added in a tight whisper.

  Shasta swallowed her groan. She squatted down to be eye to eye with Wyatt who clutched the bag containing his prized purchases from the train store. “How about you go to the curb and let us know when you see our cab coming? But don’t go into the street, okay?”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  Once the six-year-old stood out of earshot, she pivoted to her husband without rising. “One, I never agreed to anything like that and two, we weren’t alone. Melissa and Aiden were with us.”

  “That’s hardly a comfort.” Graham adjusted the ever-present blanket on his lap. No matter how hot the temperature, he always kept his mangled legs covered. “I can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible, Shasta.” He massaged his forehead.

  Concern for her husband supplanted any irritation she felt. “You got a headache?”

  He frowned. “I didn’t until finding out you and Wyatt came here without an escort.”

  Her annoyance flared to life and she shoved to her feet.

  She wasn’t an errant teenager any longer, but a grown woman. She hated that Graham sometimes treated more like a daughter than a wife. “You’re overreacting. Nothing happened.”

  “This time,” he retorted. “What about next time?” He shook his head, his lips in a thin line. “Forgive me, but I need to know my wife and son are safe.”

  Her exasperation dissolved. Of course he’d be concerned for their welfare. How selfish of her to be cavalier about his anxiety.

  She knelt back down, took his hand, and gazed into her husband’s tired eyes. “I’m sorry I worried you. And I promise to be more careful in the future.” She squeezed his fingers. “Can you please let this go?”

  Though he didn’t look happy, Graham nevertheless nodded, patted her hand then released it.

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Mom, I think I see the van coming,” Wyatt called.

  “Thanks honey,” she answered as she straightened.

  “Say, sport.” Graham motored himself forward. “Show me what you got at the train store.”

  After they were all situated in the cab, with Wyatt on the small pull-down seat right next to Graham’s wheelchair, Shasta settled into for the ride home. She listened while her son chatted away, telling his dad about all his new toy train parts.

  But they weren’t toy trains, she reminded herself. Model trains. Wyatt got huffy when she made that mistake. Graham recently introduced the hobby to him which gave father and son something to share.

  A sad smile played at her mouth. In every way, Graham was Wyatt’s dad—except for DNA. But no biological father could be more supportive or affectionate.

  Shasta stared at the passing landscape and wondered—not for the first time—what her life would have been like had her brother not been
shot. Had Lynch not gone to prison.

  When she’d been younger, she often daydreamed of marrying Lynch. Of reforming him and having a life with him. Of being…with him.

  Her eyes drifted shut as her intimate muscles pulsed in long-neglected need. Though it had been years since she’d been with Lynch, she could still feel his hands on her skin. His lips and tongue…

  “Shasta, honey…you okay?” Graham’s voice yanked her from the erotic fantasy.

  She sat straighter. “Um…yes.” She pasted on a smile. “Just tired.”

  Graham gave her a quizzical look before turning his attention back to Wyatt.

  Shasta redirected her gaze out the window. Good God…what was wrong with her? Fantasizing about Lynch Callan? That’s the last thing she should be doing. Whimsical musings weren’t productive. They only served to undermine her carefully crafted control. Control she didn’t dare let slip.

  She had a great husband. No, a really great husband. If celibacy was the price for a wonderful father for Wyatt and a generous partner for her, then so be it.

  Just as the sun set, the van pulled into the driveway of their white, two-story, colonial. The house had been in the Dupree family for two generations, with the ground floor remodeled to accommodate Graham’s wheelchair. The den, dining room and half the living room had been transformed into an oversized bedroom and home office for him. Shasta and Wyatt’s rooms were upstairs.

  She gathered her purse and Graham’s suitcase while the hydraulic lift lowered her husband, Wyatt on his lap, to the ground. She caught a bit of their whispered conversation, something about playing with the new train pieces and delaying bedtime.

  She turned to inform the duo that there’d be no delay in bedtime on a school night when a movement by the garage snagged her attention. A familiar-looking figure paused so only she could see him then ducked behind the building. Her pulse rate spiked.

  Hez.

  What the hell was he doing here? He knew better—especially with Graham and Wyatt home.

  “Mom?”