On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  Adrenaline flashed through her body. “You…” She swallowed. “Love me?”

  Cupping her cheek, he nodded. “Probably since you ran over my motorcycle.”

  Tears sparked her eyes and she ducked from his touch. In all the time she’d spent with Lynch, he never uttered those words. Neither of them had. But she knew she loved him…she just wasn’t stupid enough to assume Lynch loved her back. He couldn’t. He was a Streeter.

  She cleared her throat. “How come you never said anything?”

  “Because you were young, Shaly. Too young to get tied up with someone like me. It would have only ended in disaster for you.”

  “Why tell me now?”

  His sigh sounded heavy. “I don’t really know.”

  Silence mushroomed in the tiny space. “So what price did Ox tell you?” she finally asked.

  “The conversation never got that far. But Ox did say…”

  “What?”

  Lynch blew out another breath. “That the odds were the club would never let me leave. And definitely not for the daughter and sister of a sheriff. Ox also said if our…relationship was ever discovered, you’d in all likelihood be killed.”

  Shasta covered her mouth as icicles stabbed her chest.

  “On the ride back from Yerington,” Lynch continued, “I made the decision to break it off. I wouldn’t chance anyone finding out about us. I wouldn’t chance you getting hurt.”

  She reached for his hand. “I’m why you didn’t tell anyone you had an alibi?”

  He shrugged. “If Ox testified, the reason why I went to see him could’ve come out which might’ve put you in danger. Another risk I wasn’t going to take. When I got arrested, I thought it was divine intervention or some shit.” He chuckled, a grave sound. “I’d go to prison and you’d be safe. And then there was the added bonus that if you figured I tried to kill your brother, you’d hate me.”

  She shook her head, powerless to comprehend his words. “It’s because of me that you were locked up for seven years.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “How is it you don’t hate me?”

  Smiling, he caressed the wetness from her cheeks. “Weren’t you listening, Shaly? I love you.” He canted closer and brushed his mouth against hers. He shifted back. “You thirsty? Want some water?”

  She could only nod.

  He kissed her nose. “Be right back.”

  Watching him go, she laid down, suddenly unable to remain upright.

  She buried her face in his pillow, inhaling his musky scent. Elation spiraled through her heart.

  Lynch Callan loved her. Her.

  Just as quickly, though, a sob formed in her throat. Lynch had been willing to give up everything for her. Shit…he had given up everything…his freedom. And what had she done in return? Nothing. Not a damn thing.

  She hadn’t fought for him seven years ago when she knew he’d been innocent. All these years she lied to herself claiming she’d been too distraught over Dell’s shooting and Graham’s accident to come forward. But the ugly truth was she’d been too gutless. Too weak. Just like she’d been too cowardly to admit the real identity of Wyatt’s father.

  While she couldn’t give Lynch back those seven years, she could give him his son. And maybe Lynch would still love her. And maybe he’d find it in his heart to forgive her. And maybe, just maybe, they could have a life together. The three of them…

  Lynch padded into the bedroom. “Here ya go.” He held out a plastic cup.

  She sat up. “Thanks.” She took the offering and a small sip then placed the water on the nightstand. “Uh…listen…there’s something I need to tell you.”

  He settled on the mattress and held her hand. “First I want you to make me a promise.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’ll be happy.”

  Confused, she tilted her head with a small giggle. “O…kay.”

  “I’m serious. You’ve got a husband and kid. You need to focus on your life with them.”

  “But I thought that we’d…you know…be together. Now.”

  His smile looked sad. “You know that won’t work, Shaly.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a criminal.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “You should. The Streeters might still come after you. But even if they didn’t, you’d hafta give up everything. I can’t leave this life, Shaly, so you’d hafta leave yours.”

  “I know. And I would. For you.”

  He squinted. “You sure about that? You’d be turning your back on all the people you love, Your brother, your husband…your son.”

  Cold fingers skittered down Shasta’s spine. “Wyatt?”

  “Otherwise he’d be part of the Streeter life. The Streeter code. You want that?” Lynch set his jaw. “One way or the other, you’d be sacrificing him.”

  She pulled her hand from his and folded her arms across her middle. “Why are you doing this?” Tears of frustration burned her throat. “You said you loved me.”

  “And I do, which is why I need you to see reason. I live a dangerous life. One you—and Wyatt—aren’t meant for.” He took her hand again. “In your heart, you know I’m right.”

  She bowed her head, but he tucked his knuckle under her chin forcing her to meet his mesmeric gaze. “So promise me.”

  Shasta closed her eyes. Moisture eked from the corners.

  He was right, and that reality broke her heart.

  She couldn’t abandon Wyatt any more than she could serve him up to the Streeters. She had no choice but to walk away from the man she loved.

  Stiffening her shoulders, she opened her eyes. “I promise. I also promise not to ever forget you.”

  Smiling, he eased her down onto the mattress…

  *

  Lynch kissed Shasta with every scrap of love he felt for her. If he’d been stronger, or better, he would’ve turned her away when she showed up at his trailer. But he was neither that strong nor good…

  Maybe with both Rolo and Hez dead, Lynch sensed his own time could be running short. If the Streeters didn’t kill him for his involvement with the FBI, he might very well wind up another casualty of Blackwell’s nefarious network. But, if by some miraculous miracle, Lynch lived to see the week’s end, he’d make good on his vow to take his mom and leave Stardust. Go somewhere far away, with a warmer climate. Possibly Florida.

  One way or the other, he’d never see Shasta again. And he was okay with that. She had the right to live her life without the threat of him or the Streeters fucking up things. As for tonight, he just wanted one final time with her. Something he could remember in the long, lonely years ahead of him.

  He skimmed his hand along the silky soft skin of her neck and down to a fleshy breast. The nipple pearled against his palm. She moaned into his mouth.

  He left her lips and worked his way to a beaded peak. He whipped his tongue over the crest, feeling it turn marble hard, while his hand tweaked and pinched the other.

  She moaned again and bowed her back, shoving more of her delectable tit into his mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair and pulled him up where she kissed him with abandon.

  He slid his hand across her taut stomach to her pussy hair. He fingered through the mesh until finding and exposing her clit.

  He slowly ringed the responsive nub. Her legs widened as her hips arched into his touch. A raspy gurgle emanated from deep in her throat as he delved his fingers into her channel, finding her hot and moist and ready. For him.

  Her hand wandered down his torso to wrap around his throbbing dick. She circled her thumb over the tip, spreading the pre-cum. She caressed his length. He instinctively thrust to the cadence of her strokes. Pressure built in his balls.

  He broke the kiss, groped for the condom box and ripped open a packet then quickly donned the rubber. He reclined on his back and encouraged her to straddle his hips. With her towering over him, he gripped his cock and she slowly descended, taking him to the hilt.

  He
placed his hands on her waist to guide her movements until she found her own rhythm. She bent forward and kissed him, her tongue parrying and thrusting in time to her hips.

  Shasta increased the tempo and Lynch soon became embroiled in a firestorm of passion set to consume him.

  He stared into her face, curtained by her tousled hair. Her half-lidded eyes gazed back. Her short nails bit into his shoulders. Her harsh moans reverberated in his ears along with the sound of slapping flesh.

  His fervor kicked into overdrive. He angled onto his side, cushioning her head with one arm while scooping her top leg into the crook of his other elbow…and drove into her without mercy.

  The force in his balls reached titanic heights. He knew only a matter of seconds remained before he came. But he didn’t want to come alone.

  He wormed his hand down and tapped her clit. Her eyelids slid shut as her mouth formed a perfect o. He felt her inner muscles latch onto his dick. He buried his face in her neck and gave himself over to the glorious rush of pleasure.

  Endless moments passed as his body continued to quake. He rolled to his back, Shasta cuddled on his chest, her hot breath cooling his sweaty skin.

  An acute sense of peace shrouded him. Peace at having finally revealed the truth of his feelings to her. And also peace at knowing that, no matter the outcome between Blackwell and the FBI, with him gone from Stardust, Shasta would be safe.

  He couldn’t ask for more than that.

  *

  The next morning, Lynch stared at the early morning light flickering across his trailer ceiling.

  He’d spent most of the night awake, just holding Shasta while she slept. He didn’t want to squander his remaining time with her by sleeping. Rather he tried to commit to memory everything he could about her…

  The way her lashes fanned out on her cheeks. The way her face scrunched into a pout whenever he jostled her too much. The way she snored softly…

  Just before dawn, he’d dozed off. When he woke, she was gone.

  For the best. No awkward silences or stumbling good-byes. He didn’t know if he’d see her again. Hell…he didn’t know if he’d see the end of the week.

  The jangling of his cell disrupted his thoughts. He hoisted himself onto an elbow, nabbed it from the bedside stand and checked the ID. He flipped it open. “Morning, counselor.”

  “Callan…”

  The distress in Jarvis’s tone cascaded ice through Lynch’s chest, freezing his heart. He shot to a sitting position. “What happened?”

  “Your mom…” The agent’s voice caught. “She…uh…coded at two-thirty. They were able to bring her back, but she coded again at three-ten…then at three-forty. She just kept coding…” Jarvis cleared her throat with a sniffle. “About five minutes ago, the doctor called it.”

  He clutched the small phone with both hands. “Called what?”

  A muffling sound filled his ear then Jarvis came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry, Lynch…your mom is dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  LYNCH’S PHONE JINGLED again with Jarvis’s ringtone. And he disregarded it—again.

  After getting the news about his mom, he’d gotten on his bike and rode. He didn’t know to where…just as far away from civilization as possible in as short a time as possible. He ended up somewhere northeast of Stardust, staring across the sagebrush dotted, desert dunes.

  His heart felt carved out. First Flyer, then Rolo then Hez…

  And now his mom.

  Christ.

  His mother—the woman who gave him life and who’d always loved him no matter what—was dead. Just thinking those words increased the pressure behind his breastbone.

  He’d read about the five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. Horseshit.

  The truth couldn’t be denied while bargaining wouldn’t get you anywhere. Depression was a worthless emotion, and acceptance? Like hell he’d accept what had happened.

  Anger he understood, but he didn’t feel something so mild as anger. Rage…blind and seething…that he felt in spades.

  There should be a sixth stage—vengeance. Cold, calculating vengeance.

  He cracked his neck muscles, but the gesture did nothing to alleviate the building tension in his head. He didn’t blame Jarvis or the doctors for his mom. He knew everyone had done their best. No…the focus of Lynch’s hateful ferocity lay with one man…

  Blackwell.

  So many people had suffered, and would continue to suffer, until someone stopped that fucker. Until someone put their hands around the goddamn bastard’s neck—and squeezed. Squeezed until Blackwell gasped his last breath.

  He would be that someone. He would exact the necessary retribution. His vow to Flyer, Rolo, Hez…and his mom. Starting right fucking now.

  Lynch rode back to Stardust like a man possessed. He dodged the sparse traffic on the highway at a breakneck speed, not worried about the cops. He relished the thought of a confrontation. A release for his pent-up wrath and devastating sorrow.

  At the town limits, he slowed his bike and maneuvered through the streets until reaching Grunge’s house. The treasurer had been in the Streeters as long as Rolo and Flyer. If Lynch could trust anyone, it’d be him.

  The quiet neighborhood set his nerves on edge. It seemed almost too quiet. Lynch rolled to a stop in front of the aging duplex. Grunge and Charlotte lived on one side and their daughter, Melody, lived on the other with her three kids. Lynch killed the engine while swinging his leg over the seat.

  He retrieved the envelope containing the FBI file from his pack and headed for the door. It opened before he was halfway to the porch.

  “Yo, brother.” Grunge stood in the entryway, a Glock visible in his right hand. He darted his gaze up and down the street then back to Lynch. “Am I ever glad to see your sorry ass.” He moved to the side, tucking the gun into the front of his waistband. “Where the hell you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

  “Yeah…sorry.”

  Grunge pulled him into a brief hug. “You know what’s been going down, right? Junkyard’s dead and nobody’s seen Rolo or Hez since last week.”

  Lynch coughed as he released the treasurer “Um—”

  “Say…” Grunge peered outside. “Where’s Edie? You didn’t leave her alone, did you? Shit’s getting weird ‘round here so we need to keep everyone safe.”

  Lynch swallowed—hard. “Ma…she’s…uh…with Hez.”

  “Thank God for that.” Grunge shut the door. “I’ve been freaking the fuck out. Good to know you, your mama and Hez are both okay.” He gripped his shoulder. “You heard from Rolo?”

  Anguish closed Lynch’s throat. He removed the president patch from his pocket.

  “What the hell…” Worry and anxiety etched Grunge’s face. “How’d you get this?” His voice trembled.

  Lynch struggled for control. His composure hung by a very thin, very frayed thread. “Rolo gave it to me.” He gulped down his sob. “Yesterday…when he died in my arms.”

  Grunge’s head jerked back as tears formed in his eyes. “Rolo’s dead? No way.”

  “It’s true, brother. Is there somewhere we can talk? In private.”

  “Uh…yeah…out back. Charlotte’s in the bedroom watching TV with the grandkids. I’ll tell her to keep them inside. Meet you in a minute.”

  On stilted legs, Lynch walked through the modest house to the backyard. Lilac bushes lined the eight-foot, cinderblock fence—the perfect barrier for privacy and security. He ambled over to the picnic table situated under the massive oak.

  The aroma of freshly mowed grass hung in the air as the sun shone brightly in the pristine blue sky. It seemed like a perfect spring day, except it wasn’t. The tragic events from yesterday swirled around him like a deadly undertow, threatening to drag him under.

  In a burst of enraged anguish, he punched the tree trunk once, twice, three times. Pain roared through his hand and wrist. Good. He needed something t
o focus on rather than the grief eating his heart. The backdoor banged open and he pivoted.

  Grunge carried two steaming mugs in one hand and a bottle of Crown Royal in the other. He sat on one side of the table. Lynch sat across from him.

  The treasurer poured a generous amount of whiskey into both cups, slid one to Lynch then lifted his in the air. “To Rolo.”

  Wrapping his aching fingers around the mug, Lynch drank deeply.

  “And Junkyard,” Grunge added.

  Lynch set his drink down with a thud.

  Grunge shook his head and drew a hand down his throat. “Christ…Rolo and Junkyard.”

  “That’s not all, brother.” Lynch blinked tears from his vision. “My mom and Hez…” He sawed his molars together. “…are also dead.”

  It was like lightning hit Grunge. His body went rigid then slumped. “What the fuck?”

  Lynch could only nod.

  “Who the fuck would do all this sit? A rival club?”

  “Not another MC. Just one man. Ian Blackwell.”

  “Blackwell?” The treasurer sniffed and dug a kerchief from his pocket. “Never heard of him.”

  Lynch’s grief morphed into rage. “He’s a blackmailing, sadistic bastard who’s had his hooks in the Streeters for years.”

  Grunge shot Lynch a frown. “Ain’t nobody had their hooks in this club. Not ever.”

  “This guy has. Thanks to his minion Junkyard, and his minions Bowyer, Virgil, Cam and I don’t know who the hell else.”

  Grunge frowned. “Watch what you say about fellow brothers, brother. Besides Junkyard’s dead too—”

  “And nobody deserved dying more.”

  Grunge’s scowl deepened. “If Junkyard had a hand in this, how come he’s dead?”

  “I don’t know,” Lynch bit out.

  “But you do know he was involved, along with the others?” Grunge squinted. “What’s your proof?”

  “Proof?” Lynch opened the envelope. “I’ll give you proof.” He extracted pictures of Rolo and Hez’s tortured bodies and placed them on the table.

  “Jesus…” Grunge’s face paled. “Holy Jesus Christ.” He cradled his head in his hand then shoved the photos away. “Those prove nuthin’. Anyone coulda done that.”