Free On a Knife's Edge by Lynda Bailey Page A

his glass in
two gulps. God, he’d forgotten how good beer tasted. Since he hadn’t eaten
since lunch, the alcohol hit his system with a splash. He wiped the foam off
his lip and held his empty out to Rolo. Chuckling, the president poured him
another.
    Lynch looked around the yard. It looked…smaller somehow.
Smaller and different. Yet the same. Just like Stardust.
    He coughed the heaviness from his throat. “Where’s Flyer?”
    It killed him to ask, knowing the answer, but to not
question the absence of the VP would cause suspicion. And Jarvis instructed him
to act normally.
    Rolo’s cheerful bearing dipped. He handed a fresh beer to
Lynch. “Flyer…he, ah…left us, son.”
    “Left? Left to go where?”
    Rolo rubbed the side of his nose. “He needed to go…ah…to
Idaho to visit his pops.”
    “Or so he claimed.” Bitterness rang in Hez’s voice.
    Lynch cocked his head. “I don’t understand. What happened?”
    Hez turned away, his mouth in a tight line, and swallowed
more beer. Lynch looked at Rolo.
    The president blew out a breath. “It was maybe a month after
Flyer left when he sent a text to your ma. Said he’d been seeing someone else.
For months. That they went to Idaho together and that he…wasn’t coming back.”
    Lynch pretended outrage. “What the fuck?”
    “That’s right,” Hez spat out. “A goddamn Dear John text…you
believe that shit? Fucking bastard. It tore your momma up bad, man. Real bad.”
    “Why that lying, cheating…fucker.” Lynch hoped he’d nailed
the right tone of indignation. “When the fuck was this?”
    “Last Halloween,” Rolo responded.
    With a disgusted grunt, Lynch drank his beer, covertly
peering at the president over the rim. Rolo sounded…sad. Not enraged like he
should if a member actually had walked out on the Streeters. You didn’t
get to just walk away. Not without blood. Blood in, blood out. That’s the
motto. If you wanted to leave, you had to pay a price. A very stiff price. One
Lynch never could’ve paid…
    “You went after Flyer?” he asked.
    “Hell yes,” Hez snapped. “Junkyard and Tre went after him.”
    “Junkyard and Tre?”
    “Junkyard Taylor and Tre Olsen,” Hez answered. “Good guys,
especially Tre. He got patched in a few years back. He rolled his bike—”
    “Enough,” Rolo said, authority edged his voice. “Edie will
kick all our asses if she hears us talking about this. This is a party ,
goddamn it.” He topped off the cups. “There’ll be time enough later to catch up
on all the club shit.”
    Lynch eyed the president. First he wasn’t infuriated by
Flyer’s apparent desertion of the club and his mom, and now he didn’t want to
discuss it? Rather than press the point, he decided to let it drop. For now.
    He turned and two men he didn’t recognize, but both wearing
Streeter cuts, sauntered up. A red haze blanketed his vision. The shorter of
the two sported the VP patch on his jacket.
    “So you’re the prodigal son who’s come home, eh?” the short
one said with a snicker. “Name’s Junkyard Taylor. This here’s Bowyer.” He held
out his hand. “Congrats on getting out.”
    Lynch’s scalp tingled like the first time he walked into the
prison shower. Tats covered Junkyard and Bowyer’s exposed forearms and necks.
Instinct said they were not to be trusted. Were these two somehow involved in
Flyer’s death?
    Rather than shake hands, Lynch drained his glass in a gulp
then burped. Loudly.
    The new VP lowered his arm, his gaze narrowing. “You got a
problem, boy?”
    Though the same height, Junkyard had a wiry build and didn’t
appear as muscular as Lynch. With gray streaking his reddish ponytail, Lynch
doubted he’d have trouble taking him. By contrast, Bowyer was big and bald and
kinda dumb-looking. He could be trouble.
    Lynch rolled his shoulders with a lazy shrug. “No…just want
to enjoy the party with my brothers.”
    Junkyard cocked his head. “You don’t think I’m your
brother?”
    Lynch