On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  Lynch smiled and tipped the bottle to his lips, but he took barely a sip. He’d been nursing the same beer ever since he got to the clubhouse that morning while keeping his ears open for information about any future “pharmaceutical” shipments. With Jarvis out of town for a while, he had some breathing room, but not much.

  So far he’d heard nothing about the pharms, but he’d heard plenty from the trio at the other table about an upcoming run of AK-47s. He filed the information to tell Newman the next time he met him.

  Watching Mick line up his next shot, Lynch thought back to what he’d seen in the park between Newman and Murphy—along with dear Agent Jarvis. He wanted to believe he could trust the agents, but years as a Streeter had made him inherently cynical any trustworthy relationship could exist. Still it didn’t make a lot of sense for them to spring him from prison just to screw him over. Of course maybe they wanted him as a fall guy. If this operation tanked, an ex-con would be the perfect candidate for blame. In any case, he needed to stay on top of the situation…feed Jarvis and Newman just enough information to keep them happy, and him out of prison.

  Mick finished the game with an eight-ball bank shot to a corner pocket. “Want me to rack ‘em again?” he asked.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” Lynch answered, pulling out his wallet. He handed a twenty to Mick. “I need to redeem my reputation. Plus win back some of my money.”

  “What’s this I hear? Lynch Callan losing money while playing pool?”

  Lynch looked over as Rolo approached. He also noted Junkyard and Bowyer stood at the bar. Though the president wore a wide grin, he looked haggard. He hugged first Mick then Lynch.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Lynch asked. “You look like you were dragged for ten miles on a dirt road.”

  Rolo scowled. “Thanks, brother.” He sprawled into a nearby armchair with a not-so-quiet groan. “Been a long trip is all. Mick, how ‘bout you fetch another round?”

  Mick laid his stick on the table. “Sure thing, boss.”

  Lynch joined Rolo. “Heard you were in Henderson.”

  “Who’d you hear that from?”

  Lynch paused in sitting. “Was it a secret?”

  Rolo grunted. “No.”

  “From Grunge.” Lynch sank into the cushions. “He also gave me your welcome-home present. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that many Ben Franks.”

  Rolo smiled. “No need to thank me, son. You earned it.”

  “How? By being locked up for the last seven years? It feels like…charity.”

  The president frowned. “It ain’t no goddamn charity. You earned it by being a brother, brother.” He huffed. “I would’ve thought you smart enough to remember that.”

  “I remember being a brother who pulled his weight for his payouts. Not goddamn handouts.”

  Rolo’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing.

  “C’mon, brother,” Lynch implored. “I gotta do something more than shoot pool and drink. It’s making me batshit crazy.”

  “I woulda thought you’d like the vacation.”

  “Vacation from what?” Lynch rubbed his hands together. “I’ve had seven years of vacation.”

  Rolo sighed. “I suppose you have. All right, if it means so much to you—”

  “Here ya go, boss.” Mick returned, three beers in hand, followed by Junkyard and Bowyer.

  “Mind if we join you,” the VP asked, pulling up a chair.

  “Not at all.” Rolo’s jolliness sounded forced.

  Lynch flopped back in his seat. Christ. Just when he thought he’d get some answers, Junkyard shows up. And with his pit bull no less. Didn’t that guy go anywhere without Bowyer? Who knew when Lynch would get another chance to talk with Rolo alone?

  Rolo lifted his drink. “To a job done.”

  Lynch tipped his beer to his lips. “What job?”

  “A motherfucker that is now over,” Rolo answered. He shifted in his chair with a grimace. “I know I look youthful and all, but I’m getting too old to do these long rides.”

  “Since when is a ride up from Henderson a long one?”

  Junkyard scoffed. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

  Lynch glared. “And if I do…?”

  An uncomfortable silence descended.

  “Well…?” Lynch prodded. He didn’t like the look that passed between Rolo and Junkyard. He glanced at Mick who suddenly studied his lap with intense interest while Bowyer smirked. He set his bottle down with a thunk and stood. “I am done with this bullshit.”

  “What the fuck’s your problem?” Rolo demanded.

  Planting his hands low on his hips, Lynch glowered back. “My problem is ever since I got back, I’ve been on the outside looking in. And I’m sick of it. Either I’m a brother or I’m not.”

  “I vote for not,” Bowyer sneered.

  Lynch lowered his arms and balled his fists. “What did you say, fucktard?”

  Rage melted Bowyer’s face like a wax statue. He shoved to his feet and lunged. The other three men jumped up. Junkyard grabbed Bowyer while Mick did the same with Lynch.

  “Goddamn it,” Rolo roared. “I’m too fucking tired for a goddamn pissing contest.” He rubbed his palm down his face then aimed an angry stare at Lynch. “Club meeting. Tomorrow. Eleven am. You wanna pull your weight around here, then don’t be late. Happy?”

  No, Lynch wasn’t happy. He’d be happy if he got to pound the living shit out of Bowyer and Junkyard. But this would do. For now. He relaxed his stance. “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Rolo flopped back in his chair and picked up his beer. “Now get the fuck out before you cause another ruckus.”

  With a final glare to the VP and his pit bull, Lynch left.

  Chapter Eleven

  STARING AT THE monitor, I watch Callan stomp from camera range.

  I hate that I can’t hear for shit in that damn clubhouse. With all the goddamn money I spent to ensure I kept an eye and ear on the Streeters and the only place I get good audio is in the meeting room. But even though I couldn’t hear the words, I heard Callan’s body language loud and clear.

  His intense conversation with Pruett started a tick pulsating behind my left eye. No doubt that fucker had pumped Pruett for information, just like he had that idiot Grunge. Information about what, I don’t know. Thank God Junkyard and Bowyer had walked up, ending the conversation both times.

  God…Callan looked so pissed as he left, I had to smile. When he and Bowyer almost came to blows, even better. That’s a matchup I’d love to see, especially with Bowyer wielding his knife.

  I switch the feed to the stationhouse and see Shasta sitting at her desk. When the new station was built three years ago, no one suspected hidden cameras and microphones would be strategically placed throughout, allowing me to monitor everyone. Especially my Shasta.

  I zoom in and caress my fingertip over her face. She is so beautiful…a shiver of pleasure dances up my spine. It won’t be long before I’ll be touching her for real. Holding her. Kissing her. Making love to her…

  I frown as Todd Weedly struts up and perched his hip on her desk. Like the Streeter MC, the only decent audio I get in the stationhouse is in the more confined spaces like Albright’s office, but I turn the volume all the way up and strain to hear what’s being said.

  “You sure you don’t want to go to lunch with me,” Weedly says.

  Shasta nods without looking up. “Need to finish this, but thanks for the invite.”

  Weedly leans close to her. “You’ve been bent over those files all week, Shasta. Maybe it’s time you were bent over something…or someone…different for a change.”

  Shasta snaps up her head.

  Weedly stands with a chuckle. “Let me know if you change your mind about lunch.” He saunters off.

  I glare at the screen, feeling my pulse thump in her my head.

  I’ve never considered Weedly a danger to Shasta, but then he’s never been this blatant in his innuendos toward her. And that pisses me
off. A lot. I suppose it’s possible I’m just being overprotective because Callan’s out and is making my life miserable. Still the suggestion Shasta would allow Weedly to fuck her curdles my blood.

  I close my eyes and steady my breathing. This is Todd Weedly, a simpleton who’s absolutely zero threat to me or Shasta. It’s ludicrous to afford him more significance than he’s worth.

  Calmer, I open my eyes and smile. No way will anyone but me touch Shasta.

  Not ever again…

  Chapter Twelve

  SATURDAY MORNING, LYNCH grabbed his key ring off the dresser then exited his bedroom in his mom’s house. “C’mon, Ma. You ‘bout ready? My meeting starts in an hour.”

  “Then go,” Edie answered from her room. “I can drive to the salon on my own.” She appeared in the small hallway, putting on earrings. “Been doing it for years, you know.”

  “I know, but now that I’m home I want to spend as much time with you as I can.” He grinned when she rolled her eyes before disappearing back into her room.

  He heard her long-suffering sigh followed by a resigned, “Fine.”

  “Awesome. I’ll go start your car.”

  “Yeah…yeah.”

  Still smiling, he walked outside…and saw Hez leaning against the hood of his mom’s Camry talking with Grunge.

  Guilt nipped Lynch at the purplish bruises covering most of Hez’s face. He shook off the sensation—the bastard deserved that beating and more—then stomped down the porch steps. “Why the hell are you here?”

  Grunge immediately backed away while Hez maintained his lazy posture. “Thought it was time we had a conversation.”

  “I’ve got nuthin’ to say.”

  “Good, cuz you’ve got nuthin’ I wanna hear. But you will listen to me.”

  “What’s going on?” Edie asked, from behind.

  “Nuthin’.” Lynch opened the passenger door. “Let’s go.”

  “Mrs. C,” Hez said. “Is it okay if Grunge here escorts you to the salon? Lynch and I have a few things to discuss.”

  Lips pursed, Edie slid her gaze between Lynch and Hez then shrugged. She closed the car door Lynch held open, walked around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. Grunge climbed on his bike and trailed after Edie as she drove away.

  Lynch watched the Toyota until it vanished. He crossed his arms and glared at his former best friend. “All right. Talk.”

  Hez stuffed his hands in his back pockets. “What happened between Shasta and me is not what you think.”

  “Don’t tell me what to think,” Lynch ground out through tight lips.

  “Look…I did as you asked. I kept an eye on her. Nothing more. I didn’t even talk to her. After you’d been inside for a couple of years, I was following her back from Reno and she got a flat tire. It was like a hundred degrees and who knew how long it’d take for anyone to get to her. Plus she had her kid in the car.” Hez blew out a breath. “So I stopped and helped.”

  “And she repaid you by fucking you, right?”

  Hez narrowed his eyes. “Keep being a dick and I’ll pound the shit outta you. No, she didn’t fuck me. She baked me cookies.”

  “Chocolate chip?”

  “Yeah. Just like she made you.” Hez shook his head. “After that, she’d text me whenever her old man was gone. She’d get a babysitter for the kid and we’d…hang out at your trailer. It was innocent. We never did anything more than talk.”

  Lynch snorted. “Talk about what?”

  “You mostly.”

  Lynch tucked his chin back in surprise. “Me?”

  “Yeah. She asked about everything from us growing up together to how you were doing in the joint. And I swear to God I never did more than kiss her cheek.”

  “But something happened to change that, right?”

  “Right.” Hez’s shoulders rose on a deep inhale as his gaze lifted to the swaying treetops. “Around the fifth anniversary of her brother getting shot, she asked me to meet her. When I got to the trailer, she was a mess. Crying and so drunk on her ass, she could hardly stand. She kept saying it was all her fault.”

  “What was her fault?”

  “Beats the shit outta me. I held her. Tried to comfort her…and…”

  Lynch clenched his jaw so tight he thought his molars cracked.

  A blush crept over Hez’s cheeks and he huffed a breath. “She kissed me and I…uh…kissed her back.” He forced a chuckle. “I mean I’m only human, right?” His small smile died. “We got into some pretty heaving petting and she was making these gurgling noises…”

  A growl caught in Lynch’s throat.

  Hez scrubbed a hand down his face. “I figured things were going full steam ahead. I whispered her name, and she whispered…yours.” He shook his head. “When she realized what she’d said, she lost it completely. Nothing I did calmed her. Finally she passed out and I left.” He scuffed his shoe through the dirt. “Haven’t seen or heard from her since, until she told me you were getting out.”

  Lynch stared at the ground, his hands on his hips, taking a moment to process his emotions.

  On one hand, he felt grateful Hez hadn’t betrayed him, yet on the other, remorse consumed him. He never expected Shasta to…languish. Especially for him. After all, he’d been convicted of trying to kill her brother. He always assumed she moved on, and she had. With a man in a wheelchair.

  Hez shifted. “You gotta believe I wouldn’t hurt you like that, man. I love you.”

  Lynch glanced up. “But you have been staying here, right?”

  Hez rubbed his neck. “Yeah…me and the twins use your place when they’re off shift from the ranch.”

  Lynch nodded. Tears burned his eyes as silence settled in the space around him and Hez. Not an awkward silence, but a clean one. Like he’d just gotten back his best friend. He cleared his throat. “You, ah, wanna grab some lunch before the meeting?”

  A crooked grin creased Hez’s face. “Yeah, I do. Mert’s?”

  “Sounds great.”

  Lynch turned, but Hez gripped his shoulder, pivoted him back and enfolded him in a monster hug. Lynch clutched him tightly for a moment as a tear eked from his eye. He slapped Hez once then stepped away. The other man sniffed and wiped his nose.

  “Enough of this shit,” Lynch said with a smile. “Let’s go eat.”

  *

  From his seat against the wall, Lynch watched the club members file into the meeting room.

  Time was when the brothers all sat at the same table with the prospects delegated to the perimeter. But now only the officers sat around the massive oval table.

  Lynch crossed his arms, his knees wide and snarled under his breath. He wasn’t no goddamn prospect…

  Hez elbowed him, a question on his face. Lynch relaxed his posture with a small shake of his head. He needed to keep his cool and not give away his personal feelings. No matter how hard.

  When the door closed, Rolo smacked the gavel on the oak surface. “Order.”

  The din of voices quieted.

  While Rolo went through his version of Robert’s Rules of Order, Lynch fought his impatience. Who gave a fuck about the secretary or treasurer reports? When the hell would they get to the brass tacks of the meeting? Finally the discussion moved onto old and new business. He perched his ankle on the opposite knee, his hands folded in his lap, hoping to give the impression of detachment, but he hung on every word spoken.

  Everything from forming an alliance with a Latino gang in Sacramento to guaranteeing the safe transport of guns to opening new distribution lines in Seattle for heroin was hashed out. Lynch catalogued the names and dates in his memory. The information might come in handy in the future. But he heard nothing about any pharmaceuticals shipments.

  Rolo struck the gavel. “If there’s nothing else, meeting’s adjourned. See Junkyard for your assignments.”

  Lynch stood. “I’m out,” he said to Hez then headed for the door.

  “Yo…wait a minute there, brother.”

  Lync
h turned and saw Junkyard grinning at him, as was Bowyer and two more of Junkyard’s crew. Cocking his head, Lynch moved closer. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t you want your assignment?” Junkyard asked.

  Lynch narrowed his eyes. “Okay.”

  “Good.” Junkyard wiped the smirk off his face. “Old Man Perry’s behind on his protection money. Why don’t you go collect it?”

  All Lynch could do was stare.

  Junkyard rolled back on his heels, his mouth pulled into a thoughtful frown. “I know it’s been a while for you…” Bowyer snickered, followed by the other two morons, and Junkyard’s attempt to keep a straight face failed. “But the old man’s bones should be brittle enough that if need be even you could break them.”

  The foursome dissolved into fits of laughter.

  Lynch glared at the VP. “Let me get this straight…you want me to lean on Old Man Perry?”

  “Yeah,” Junkyard chortled. “Figured you needed something simple to do.”

  Lynch looked at Rolo, who didn’t meet his gaze. “You approved this?”

  The president shrugged. “You said you wanted to pull your weight and the old man’s behind.”

  “But I’m not a pimple-faced prospect looking to get patched in.”

  “You want something easier?” Junkyard’s pit bull taunted.

  Blood pounded in Lynch’s ears as he squared off with Bowyer. The atmosphere in the room changed. Became tenser. Lynch didn’t know what would happen, but if he got the chance to beat the fuck out of Bowyer, he’d take it.

  “Knock it off, both of you,” Rolo snapped, heaving to his feet. The president gave Lynch a hard look. “Your assignment is Old Man Perry, got it?”

  “No.”

  Rolo skewered him with a glower. “What?”

  “I haven’t fought and bled for this club to be relegated to shaking down a ninety-year-old man.” Lynch stalked toward the door.

  “Where the hell you going?” Rolo asked.