On a Knife's Edge (11 page)

“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?”

Wyatt’s voice skipped her heart, but she managed not to
yelp. “Yes?”

“Can I stay up a little later tonight—please?”

Her planned veto dashed from her brain. If the boys were
occupied, she could discover why Hez lurked about. “All right. But just thirty
minutes. Deal?”

Wyatt hopped off of Graham’s lap. “Deal! Thanks Mom.”

As Graham paid the driver, Shasta headed for the kitchen
door. After making quick work of unpacking Graham’s suitcase, then making
certain he and Wyatt were entrenched in model-train-land, she hurried outside.
She rounded the garage to find Hez, his back to her and his shoulder shoved
against the weathered siding.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed. “Are you
crazy?”

Hez unbent his posture and turned. A small gasp escaped her
mouth. The diminishing daylight couldn’t hide his bruised, battered face. One
eye was almost swollen shut with nasty contusions coloring both cheeks. And his
lips looked three times their normal side. “What happened?”

He opened his mouth then grimaced when his lip started to
bleed. He gingerly swiped it with his finger. “Ran into a couple of fists.”

She stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “Do these fists
have an owner?”

He dodged her touch. “Yeah…Lynch.”

Her insides went cold and her world tilted. She pulled in a
lungful of lilac-scented air and held it, feeling her heart pound against her
ribcage. “Lynch?”

Hez nodded, staring at the ground. “He showed up at the
trailer before I could get your stuff.” Slowly he met her gaze. “Sorry,
beautiful.”

“You said he’s staying with Edie.”

“He is.” Hez rolled his shoulder. “But he wanted to check out
his place. Didn’t take him long to figure out you’d been spending time there.
‘Specially once he found this.” He held up her silver necklace then dropped it
into her palm.

The treasured piece of jewelry felt cool against her skin.
“And Lynch did…” She gestured to Hez’s face. “…that?”

“Yeah.” Hez fingered his black eye. “He was pretty pissed.”

“Didn’t you explain things?”

“He wasn’t all that interested in listening. Just punching.”

Tears filled her eyes. It was her fault Lynch beat the
daylights out of his best friend. Just like so much else was her fault.
“God…I’m so sorry, Hez.”

He shrugged again. “You’re not to blame, beautiful.”

“Yes I am.”

He shook his head, caressing his thumb down her cheek.
“Nah…you’re not.” He dropped his hand, picked up a small box at his feet and
handed it to her. “Here’s your stuff.”

“Thanks.” She shifted, not sure what to say. “Where’s your
bike?”

“I parked a couple of streets over and cut through the
yards.”

“Smart.”

“Yeah. I gotta go.”

He turned and made his way through the trees. She watched
him until the twilight closed in around him then trudged back to the house, her
heart heavy in her chest.

~*~

J
ust before eleven Wednesday
morning, Lynch rolled his bike into the weathered and cracked asphalt parking
lot of the Stardust Bowling Alley—the front for the 5th Streeters clubhouse.

With all the crap of the past few days—first getting hauled
into jail and then the shit with Hez—he hadn’t had the chance to stop by until
now. Since Rolo should’ve returned yesterday, Lynch figured he needed to find
out just what the fuck his crew had been up to.

He climbed off his ride, pushed his sunglasses to the top of
his head then strode to the double glass doors. Inside, he blinked against the
sudden dimness. The steady sound of bowling balls crashing onto synthetic resin
lanes, followed by the rumble as they traveled toward their ten-pin targets,
transported Lynch back to the time when his only concern had been trying for
the perfect three hundred score.

To his right, the same half dozen slot machines occupied the
same shallow, grungy alcove. Several geriatric ladies played video poker while
being watched over by a circling, hazy cloud of cigarette smoke and a bored
change person. Lynch walked past the restrooms until the narrow corridor widened
into the concourse and the eighteen lanes, all of which were in use. A bowling
league, obviously.

The equipment counter and snack bar were to the left with
people milling about. On the far side sat the lounge bar. Lynch spied a
Streeter cut sitting on a stool, engaged in a conversation with the cute blonde
bartender and smiled.

Grunge, the middle-aged, pot-bellied club treasurer, hit on
anyone with tits, despite the fact his old lady would snatch any other female
bald. Lynch edged up behind the older member, his finger to his lips when the
girl saw him approach. Without warning, he clapped the treasurer on the
shoulder.

Grunge swung around, his harsh expression dissolving when he
saw Lynch. “Well, shut the front goddamn door. ’Bout goddamn time you showed up
here.” He stood and lugged Lynch into a quick hug then put him at arm’s length.
“Heard Albright hauled you in the other day.”

Lynch’s jaw fell. “Shit…news travels fast.”

“Indeed it does, brother, ‘specially in this town. So what
the fuck did he want?”

“To rattle my cage I guess.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Grunge play-slapped the side of Lynch’s head. “Then what the
hell took you so long to get here, brother? Forget where this place was?”

Smiling and rubbing his cheek, Lynch slipped onto the
neighboring stool. “Jesus, man. I've been out for less than a week. Give a guy
the chance to get some sleep, will ya?”

Grunge gripped his shoulder with a laugh. “And some pussy,
right? I saw those two with you on Friday night. Damn fine snatches. Am I
right?”

“You are indeed.” Lynch arched an eyebrow at the bartender
whose ample breasts threaten to spill out the top of her scoop-necked t-shirt.
She didn’t look old enough to drink let alone tend bar. Probably an off-shift
girl from the Comstock. “And what’s your name?”

She wiped the bar with a flirtatious wink. “Josie. What’s
yours?”

He allowed a slow grin to spread across his face. “Lynch.”

“What can I get you…Lynch?”

“Coffee, please…Josie.”

Grunge snorted. “Coffee? Fuck no. This calls for tequila.”
He slapped the bar. “Set us up with the good stuff, my darlin’ Josie. And don’t
bother with the fucking limes or puny shot glasses.”

Josie nodded, placed two tumblers on the bar and grasped a
bottle from underneath. Lynch couldn’t believe the label as she expertly poured
the generous shots.

Holy mother..
.
Patrón
Añejo
.

Since when could Rolo afford to serve anything but Jose
Cuervo?

Grunge clinked glasses with him. “Welcome home, brother.”

While the treasurer downed a healthy gulp, Lynch took a
moment to just breathe in the scent of the alcohol. A woody aroma mixed with
vanilla and raisins teased his senses. He took a sip, allowing the smooth,
sweet taste to roll around on his tongue before swallowing. The pleasant burn
warmed his chest.

Grunge picked up the bottle and his glass then stood.
“C’mon. Let’s take this to the back. Don’t need any of these loser bowlers
thinking they can have the good stuff.”

Lynch grabbed his tumbler and rose while Grunge moved to the
door marked “Private,” the official entrance to the Streeter inner sanctum.

Josie reached across the bar. “Promise you’ll come tell me
good-bye when you leave, okay…Lynch.”

He flashed a grin. “It’s a promise…Josie.” Following the
treasurer, he crossed the threshold, and his feet stumbled to a halt.

Everything looked so…opulent. Not a word to describe the
hard-bitten members of the Streeter MC.

Another bar, this one oak, still dominated the right side of
the room. But instead of the wood surface looking dull and lifeless, it gleamed
brighter than the gaudy, gold-plated mirror behind the row of liquor bottles.
The ratty couches and armchairs Lynch remembered had been swapped out for what
looked like a floor exhibit from an upscale furniture store. And the numerous
mismatched, threadbare rugs had been replaced with seamless, wall-to-wall
carpet. Even in his heavy boots, he could feel the plushness beneath his feet.

Just where had the club gotten this kind of money? The
answer soured the sweet taste of Patrón in his mouth.

But the far more disturbing thing Lynch noticed were the
dozen “brothers” populating the expensive furniture and shooting pool at the
two tables off to the left—he didn’t recognize a one of them. Yet they all wore
Streeter cuts.