On a Knife's Edge (8 page)

With a silent curse, Lynch blew out a breath. His personal
feelings about Flyer, mixed with the beer, were making him stupid—and careless.
He forced his body to unwind before meeting Rolo’s gaze. “Sorry. It’s just that
everything’s changed. This town. Different Streeter members. A new VP. And I
can’t believe Flyer would leave like that. Leave my mom. They’d been together
since I was in first grade. For him to throw away almost twenty-five years…”

Rolo’s harsh expression softened and he dropped his arms. “I
know it’s tough, but things change, brother. People change. Even after all
those years.”

Lynch stared at the ground. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” Rolo clapped him on the back. “Now if
you’re done being an asshole, we’ve got a little something to show you.”

Curious, Lynch walked between Rolo and Hez to the detached
garage he and Flyer converted into a bedroom for his sixteenth birthday. All
his Streeter brothers, minus Junkyard and Bowyer—he doubted he’d ever think of
those two as brothers—milled about on the cracked driveway, smiling and
winking. Then everyone moved aside to expose an achingly familiar Softail
Custom Harley. Lynch stopped dead in his shoes.

“We got her out of storage as soon as Edie said you were
coming home,” Mick volunteered, holding out the key. “It took most of the day,
but me and Picket got her cleaned and tuned up.”

Lynch took the key, swung a leg over the scooped, padded
seat and trailed his fingertips along the handlebars. Nobody could nurse a long
neglected Harley back to healthy better than Mick. The chrome gleamed like it
had been polished for hours. Not a single smudge was anywhere to be seen.
“Great job, brother.” He held his hand out to Mick. “Thank you.”

“Well,” Rolo urged. “Don’t just sit there. Start her up.”

Lynch inserted the key, activated the fuel petcock then
pulled the choke out all the way. After turning the ignition key, he gently
compressed the clutch lever and pressed the start button. The engine purred to
life.

Everyone whooped and hollered as Lynch revved the motor, not
caring that his grin touched his ears. God…he wanted to hit the open road and
ride. Ride far and fast. Feel the wind rush past his face and see nothing but
open space. But Rolo motioned for him to cut the engine. Reluctantly, he
complied and climbed off the bike.

Facing Rolo, what the president held in his hands had
emotions strangling Lynch.

His cut.

Holy Jesus Christ.

Sudden clarity centered his mind and Lynch stiffened his
spine as Rolo helped him slip on the jacket. He stroked his palms down the
leather front. It felt like coming home.

Really coming home. Because he
was
home.

Moisture pressed at his eyes, but this time the beer had
weakened his defenses, making him helpless against the onslaught of emotions.
With a choked sob, he wrapped his arms around Rolo. Next came Hez who hugged
Lynch tightly, his own shoulders quaking amidst the sniffles of the men
surrounding them.

After Hez came Mick, then Grunge, then the other Streeter
brothers. Lynch wept harder with each embrace. He loved this crew—his
family—every single motley one of them. And he was dying inside because as much
as he loved them, he had to betray them. For their own good.

Rolo wiped his nose. “All right…enough of this sappy shit.
Let’s get drunk.”

Lynch nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

The group made its way to the keg when Jarvis interceded.
“Excuse me. Mind if I have a word with my client?” Though the agent smiled, she
looked far from happy.

Once alone, she pivoted so Lynch’s back was to the yard.
“Are you trying to screw this thing up before you even get started?” she hissed
in a low voice.

Lynch narrowed his eyes. “What the hell you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your little show with that guy.”

“Hey.” Lynch jabbed his finger. “He’s wearing Flyer’s
patch.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn,” Jarvis fired back. “
No
one can suspect
any
thing, you understand me? Otherwise you could get
yourself killed, along with me and Newman.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Jarvis scowled. “I mean it, Callan. If you want justice for
Flyer, and not get dead, stick to the goddamn plan. Got it?”

“I got it,” he ground out.

“Good. Newman and I are leaving. We’ll give you the weekend
to settle in and get the lay of the land. But time is short, so the sooner you
bring us something actionable, the better. For everyone.”

The agent strode to where Newman waited for her. Lynch
mockingly saluted his “lawyer” then turned to see Rolo and Junkyard on the far
side of the yard, away from everyone. The president flexed and rubbed his
hands…his tell when the conversation wasn’t to his liking. Lynch would give
just about anything to know what they were talking about…

“Hey.”

Lynch spun around. Hez stood there, two fresh beers in his
hands.

His friend handed him a cup. “Everything okay? You seem a
million miles away.”

“Yeah…everything’s just peachy.” Lynch took a healthy
swallow of beer, his gaze back on Rolo and Junkyard. “What can you tell me
about our new VP?”

“Junkyard’s a decent enough guy. Smart and dependable. Watch
out for Bowyer, though. That motherfucker’s crazy, especially with a knife. I
saw him skin a live rabbit in less than a minute. He’s got mad skills. Deadly
mad skills.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Where they from?”

“They ran with a crew up in Vancouver, Washington.”

“How long they been in the club?”

Hez gave him a questioning look. “About five years. What’s
with all the questions?”

Lynch shrugged and loosened his stance. “Nuthin’. Just
curious.”

“You should know, Junkyard stepped up big when Flyer split.”

Yeah, but was he responsible for Flyer murder?

Lynch made a mental note to tell Jarvis about Mr. Junkyard
Taylor. The feds had the resources to dig into the new VP’s background.

Hez took Lynch’s beer and set both cups on the ground.
“Okay…time for my welcome home present.” He pulled a nine millimeter Glock from
his waistband and held it out. “I kept her cleaned and oiled.” He grinned. “I
assume you’re not suppose to carry, but…”

Lynch took the gift with a huge grin. “Yeah, fuck that.” The
pistol grip fit his palm perfectly—just like always. It was like having back a
missing part of his arm.

He turned, pointed the barrel into the darkened corner of
the yard and squinted down the sight. He wanted nothing more than to squeeze
the trigger. Pop off a couple of rounds, if not the whole damn clip, but knew
he couldn’t. He lowered the weapon and slid it into his waistband. The weight
at his lower back gave him comfort. He pulled Hez into a quick hug. “Thanks for
keeping her safe, man.”

“Anytime, bro.” Hez eased away and pulled a joint and lighter
from his pocket. “Time to get down to some serious celebrating.” He lit the
thin cigarette, inhaled then handed it to Lynch.

Lynch smiled. “Damn straight.” He drew in a deep pull, but
his lungs protested the invasion of smoke after so many years without. He
doubled over, coughing hard.

Hez thumped his back with a laugh. “You okay?”

Lynch straightened with his own chuckle. “Yeah.” He gave Hez
the doobie. “Shit…that’s embarrassing.”

 “It’s like riding and fucking, man. You might not have done
it in a while, but it’ll come back to you.”

“Food’s ready!” Charlotte announced to appreciative
applause.

“Bout damn time.” Hez threw his arm around Lynch’s
shoulders. “C’mon, brother. Let’s eat.”

His mouth watering, Lynch piled his plate high with more
food than he’d probably eaten in the entire past month, then he and Hez sat at
the table with his mom.

Rolo and Junkyard were still in conversation. The president
leaned close to Junkyard, his finger in the VP’s chest. Junkyard said
something. Then all hostility leaked from Rolo’s body. He gave a docile nod.
Junkyard signaled to Bowyer and the two strode from the yard with cocky
swaggers.

If Lynch hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would’ve
believed anyone capable of making Rolo back down. But Junkyard had.

Rolo headed for the food line. When he saw Lynch watching
him, he pasted on a wide smile. But it didn’t fool Lynch. Something was
seriously not right with the Streeters. And he’d bet the next twenty years of
his life the trouble centered around Junkyard.

A few minutes later, Rolo took a seat next to Edie.

Lynch made a show of looking around. “Junkyard ain’t
staying?”

“Nah. He and Bowyer got business.” Rolo picked up his
burger.

“What kind of business?”

Rolo’s gaze drilled him. “
Club
business.”

“Thought you were gonna catch me up on the
club
business.”

“Not tonight, son.”

“Why not? I’m anxious to get back to things.”

The big man sighed. “Because it’s gonna take more than
thirty seconds to fill you in on the last seven years.”

“Tomorrow then.”

Rolo shook his head. “Gonna be outta town until Tuesday. Now
shut up and eat.”

Lynch wanted to press the issue, but reluctantly, he dug
into his meal instead. And soon he forgot everything except the explosion of
flavor in his mouth.

Good God…had food ever tasted this good? He didn’t think so,
but it wasn’t long before his belly wouldn’t accept another bite.

His mother frowned at his half-empty plate. “Is that all
you’re eating? Didn’t you like it?”

“Everything was great, Ma. Better than great. Really. Just
full.”

She opened her mouth, but Rolo cut her off. “Now what’d I
say about fussing at him, Edie? The boy’s been on a prison diet. It’s gonna
take time for his stomach to catch up to his eyeballs.” He pulled a joint from
his breast pocket. “‘Sides, I bet he’s leaving room for dessert.” He lit the
doobie then passed it to Lynch.

When he hesitated, Hez elbowed him. “Like riding and
fucking.”

This time Lynch didn’t take as deep a drag and was able to
hold the smoke in with a minimum of coughing. He gave the reefer to his mom
who, after her toke, handed it to Hez. By the time the dope made it several
times around, his body felt light and floaty. His mom cleared the plates and
headed into the house. He looked at Rolo, nudging his head in her direction.
“She okay?”

Rolo folded his arms on the table. “As good as can be
expected I suppose. Hez is right. Flyer’s leaving ripped her up good. But she’s
a tough old broad. She’ll be fine.” He leaned back in his chair with a wink.
“So…you ready for dessert? Hez, go fetch the dessert.”

“With pleasure.” Grinning a shit-eating grin, Hez stood and
walked to a darkened corner of the yard.

Lynch patted his belly. “I couldn’t eat another thing.”

“Oh, I think you’ll make room.” Rolo wagged his eyebrows,
staring at something behind Lynch.

Confused, Lynch turned. Hez escorted two attractive, and
similar-looking blondes, one on each arm toward him. Catcalls and whistles
echoed in the air.

The girls wore hip-hugging jeans and midriff tops that
nearly popped with their surgically enhanced tits. They were all smiles—and
they were smiling right at him. He looked at Rolo who tipped his cup in salute.

The realization of the situation sent a rush of blood to
Lynch’s dick. All thoughts of Junkyard sped from his brain. Even Flyer became a
ghostly memory as his jeans shrank two sizes.

Oh fuck yeah!

“In case you didn’t notice, they’re twins,” Hez stated. He
nodded to the girl on his left arm. “This one’s Tamara and this one’s Tabitha.
They work at the Comstock Whorehouse.” He winked. “Just like riding, right
bro?”

Tamara and Tabitha stood on either side of Lynch, their
voluptuous tits right at eye level. Their hands stroked his upper back and
chest. His body tightened painfully.

Rolo jostled his shoulder. “Well, say something.”

Lynch licked his dry lips. “Um…thanks?”

Everyone laughed.

“The garage is fully stocked,” Rolo explained. “Clean sheets
on the bed, food and beer in the fridge. And plenty of rubbers,” he added with
a lecherous grin to the twins.

Lynch stood. He wanted to act cool, like having two gorgeous
hookers dropped into his lap happened every day. Truth was, his legs shook and
his heart raced. And his cock felt ready to burst. He feared he’d blow his wad
right then and there. He crooked his elbows to Tamara and Tabitha. “Ladies.”

To thunderous applause and cheers, Lynch guided the girls
into the single room apartment and the outside noise dimmed. The bedside light
shed a warm glow over the room. Next to the lamp sat a bowl of foil packets.
One girl turned down the sheets while the other took his hand and led him to
the bed. She eased off his cut.

“So which one are you?” He placed his Glock on the
nightstand. “Tamara or Tabitha?”

She paused in tugging his t-shirt from his waistband to look
up. “Does it matter?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

His shirt dispatched, both girls then went to work on the
buttons of his fly. His jeans were shoved to his knees, along with his boxers,
and his engorged dick sprang free.

“Ohhh,” one of them cooed. “Nice.”

“Uh, huh,” the other concurred. She flicked her tongue out
and teased his tip.

Small but determined hands pushed him onto the mattress. His
shoes and socks were removed and his jeans shucked from his legs. He stretched
out with his back against the headboard, one arm tucked behind his head with
the other fisted around his cock, and watched the twins slowly disrobe.

Actually they disrobed each other. Maybe he should’ve been
weirded out because they were sisters and caressing each other’s tits struck
him as borderline not okay. But with the beer and dope in his system, plus the
adrenaline rush of today, Lynch would’ve been fine with them strapping on
dildos and fucking each other’s asses.