Authors: Lynda Bailey
After the twins were naked—god
damn
but they had
smoking hot bodies—they crawled onto the bed with him, one on either side of
him. They started by kissing and nipping his hipbones, torturously making their
way toward his aching package. Once there, they alternated between licking his
dick and stroking it. With four hands and two tongues, he would’ve thought
they’d get in each other’s way, but they seemed well versed in teamwork.
One knelt between his parted legs and pillowed his dick with
her boobs. Holy shit. It was like having his cock surrounded by a cloud. A
soft, downy, perfect cloud.
The other worked up his torso. Her tongue swirled in his
bellybutton before she kissed her way to his chest. She bit lightly on his
nipple. She nibbled on his neck just below his ear. Goose bumps chased across
his scalp. Straddling his lap, she thrust her breasts in his face.
He palmed one boob while twirling his tongue around the
other pert nipple. Delicate fingers threaded through his hair with a moan. He
sucked the tit deep into his mouth. Moist heat swallowed his cock, and his
vision blurred.
The girl on top bounced and jiggled as the girl on the
bottom deep-throated him.
Whatever control Lynch held over his body snapped. He came
with a shout and torrent of cum. But he came too quickly. He wanted to savor
this moment. Prolong it. Not come like a high school freshman during his first
trip to a whorehouse.
Top girl climbed off him and he slithered to a prone
position, his eyelids suddenly heavy. “Sorry,” he muttered.
She kissed his cheek. “No worries, lover. We’ll be here when
you wake up.”
Chapter Six
AND
THEY WERE
. For two whole damn days, Lynch did nothing but sleep and
fuck. Occasionally he ate, but not that much. His need for sleep and pussy
seemed insatiable.
In prison, sleep was as prized a commodity as privacy, and
just as impossible to get. You learned fast not to fall into a deep sleep
around a bunch of inmates. Made for a short life.
As for pussy, you also learned to make do with what you had
available while incarcerated. Or worse, learned to have someone make do with
you.
On Monday morning, the third official day of his freedom,
brightness against his closed eyelids forced Lynch from slumber. He cracked one
eye. Sunlight streamed through the small, rectangular windows of the old
pull-up garage door and across his face. The smell of cum and sweat hung the
stale air. His dick pulsed with need, ready for action. He groped for a handful
of ass or tit, but found nothing but empty bed next to him.
With a groan, he sat up, blinking to clear his vision. Both
Tamara and Tabitha were gone. He squinted at the clock radio on the dresser
across the room.
8:17 am.
A sudden and loud rattling turned his attention to the
nightstand, and the cell phone on top. He leaned over to grab it. Someone at
some point had been smart enough to plug it in to charge. The small screen lit
up an unknown number.
Jarvis and/or Newman.
He answered.
“Is Darren there?”
He stretched out on the rumpled sheets. “All clear,
counselor.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
He frowned at her snappish question. “Where does the GPS on
this phone say I've been? Thought you knew where I’d be at all times.”
“Don’t get smart, Callan. You’re not very good at it. I know
you’ve been at your mom’s. I also know you were instructed to answer whenever
we call. I've been trying to get in touch with you since Saturday morning.”
Lynch worked to rein in his temper. “You also said I could
take the weekend.”
She blew out a breath. “I had no idea if you were dead or
what.”
“Is that concern I hear in your voice?”
She snorted. “Hardly concern for
you
, Callan. My only
concern is this mission. Speaking of which, what have you discovered about
Blackwell?”
His turn to scoff. “What the hell do you expect me to do?
Cop a squat and shit out information on this guy?”
“If necessary, that’s
exactly
what I expect.” Her
tone held a steely edge.
“Well sorry for ya, counselor.” Sarcasm laced his words.
“But things don’t work that way.”
“You better make them work otherwise you, along with all
your biker buddies
and your mother,
will go to prison. Understand?”
Rubbing his eyes, Lynch bit back a scathing retort. He
understood the stakes just fine…his freedom, and the freedom of everyone he
cared about. “Look, I asked questions at the party and that raised eyebrows.
You said not to do that, right?”
She sighed. “I know.” She suddenly sounded very tired. “It’s
just that two fourteen-year-old girls from Reno were reported missing.”
Lynch sat taller. “When?”
“Friday night. They were walking home from a neighborhood
market. Witnesses reported seeing a dark colored van cruising the area. No
license plate.”
“What time?”
“Around ten. Why?”
“Could be nothing, but Rolo had an intense conversation with
Junkyard Taylor after you and Newman left, and Rolo definitely didn’t seem
happy about the outcome.” Rustling filled his ear, like Jarvis jostled her phone.
“Who’s Junkyard Taylor?”
“The new Streeter VP.”
“The guy you had words with at the party?”
“Yeah. Him and his goon, Bowyer, came down from Vancouver,
Washington about five years ago. Right about the time all those girls started
missing. Like I said, it might be just a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Neither did Lynch. “Then Junkyard and Bowyer split.”
“To go where?”
“Dunno, but Rolo said it had to do with club business.”
“What else do you know?”
“That’s it. I’m headed to the MC this afternoon to see what
I can dig up.”
“Good. I’ll do the same on this end. We’ll touch base later
tonight. Oh, and you’d better answer my calls from now on.”
He rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, counselor.”
The line went dead. Lynch laid in bed for another few
minutes, taking in the reality of actually being out of prison. Up to this
point, he hadn’t had the chance to absorb his circumstances.
He was home, with his mom and his crew. Things were
different—Christ, things were
hell-a
different. Like the fucked up
situation with the missing girls. And the more messed up shit with Flyer…
A knot formed in Lynch’s throat at the thought of never
seeing Flyer again. He shouldn’t be dead. He should be in the house right now,
arguing with his mom about stupid old man, old lady shit. But he wasn’t.
And if it hadn’t been for the dumb luck of some fisherman,
the FBI never would have contacted Lynch. And he never would’ve learned about
Flyer or his supposed “leaving” the Streeters.
No brother deserved to end up in Pyramid Lake, especially
Flyer. He’d been a good man. A good brother. A good…father. Lynch blinked at
the burn in his eyes.
In a brisk move, he scrubbed his hand over his face, his
sorrow morphing into anger, then into rage. He’d ferret out the truth behind
Flyer’s murder, if it was the last thing he did. He owed the man that much. And
if Lynch found out Junkyard or Bowyer—or even Rolo—had anything to do with
Flyer’s death…well…God help them. Because Lynch sure as hell wouldn’t.
He stood and padded into the small bathroom to pee. After
the sex marathon, he figured a shower should be the next order of business. His
first
private
shower in over seven years. His lips curved into a grin as
he set the water temperature to nuclear.
Ninety minutes later, after using all the hot water and
devouring half of his favorite casserole his mom left in the fridge, Lynch
squatted beside his Harley in the driveway, an open toolbox to his right. While
he didn’t question Mick’s job fixing up his ride, he nevertheless checked the
oil and transmission lube. It was like reacquainting himself with an old lover.
Relearning all her ins and outs. Remembering what she liked and didn’t like.
The temperature was chilly even in the bright sunlight. His
fingers and tips of his ears grew numb, but he didn’t care. It felt amazing to
be outside without a fence or guard tower anywhere in sight, hearing the low
rumble of passing cars and the distant howl of a train whistle.
When he finished tinkering with his Harley, he closed up the
toolbox and stowed it in the garage. He returned to his bike, intent on riding
to the clubhouse to dig into recent Streeter activity, and saw five cars—two of
them belonging to the sheriff’s department—blocking his access to the street.
Lynch recognized most of the half dozen men milling around
the vehicles from high school. While he didn’t know the deputy sheriff, there
was no mistaking Dell Albright as he leaned against the hood of one squad car.
Wearing a sheriff’s jacket and khaki pants, Shasta’s older brother didn’t look
all that different from seven years ago, except maybe for the cane beside him.
Dell grabbed it then made his way up the gently sloped driveway.
Conflicting emotions swirled through Lynch as Dell limped
toward him. On one hand, Lynch’s animosity toward Dell hadn’t diminished in the
years since they were classmates. On the other, seeing the physical toll taken
on Dell generated sincere…empathy for the guy. Lynch remembered Dell as the
state record holder for the hundred yard dash. In high school, he’d been so athletic,
and fast. But now…
Dell stopped, one hand on his cane, the other on his gun.
“Morning.”
Lynch stared into the mirrored sunglasses, both grateful and
not because he didn’t have his Glock on him. “Dell.”
“It’s Sheriff Albright when I’m on duty.”
“So you’re here in an official capacity?”
“Yep.” Dell shifted and his mouth thinned. “I need you to
come to the stationhouse.”
Lynch’s belly tightened. “Why?”
“So we can…catch up.”
“Am I being charged?”
“No.” Even with the sunglasses, Lynch felt Dell’s deadly glare.
“Unless you decline my request. Then I’ll have something to charge you with.”
Lynch observed the deputy and other men closing ranks around
Dell. Six against one. Given the odds, he had no chance.
There’d once been a time in Lynch’s life when he would’ve
been stupid enough—when he would’ve said fuck it—and attacked like a madman,
with or without a gun.
But that was prior to his prison education. In the joint, he
learned hard, fast and in a fucking hurry it was better to surrender than fight
a losing battle. Because fighting and losing held more consequences than simply
capitulating. He pulled his cell from his pocket. “Mind if I call my lawyer and
have her meet us there?”
Dell plucked the phone from Lynch’s grasp. “You can call
once you’re there.” He eased to the side. “Let’s go.”
~*~
E
arly Monday afternoon,
Shasta blasted the radio as she drove along the highway. The snow-capped peaks
of the Sierra towered in front of her. They looked so pretty this time of year,
with the contrast between the white and the multiple shades of brown. In
another month or two, the snow would be gone and the brown would become even
more diverse. Off to her left, a red-tailed hawk hovered above a cow pasture,
looking for his lunch. Despite the serenity of the scene, suspicion nipped at
her.
Given how freaked-out Dell had been about Lynch’s release on
Friday, a feather could have knocked her over when her brother sent her to Reno
for office supplies—alone.
Although she’d argued they had more than enough coffee,
coffee filters, print cartridges and paper clips to last another month, Dell
insisted she go, making her more leery.
And her brother spent the weekend on patrol which piled onto
her mistrust. While he’d stayed with her and Wyatt at night, and assigned a
squad car to watch the house during the day, that didn’t explain why—with his
bad leg—he’d spent hours in the tight confines of a car. She knew lack of
movement increased his pain exponentially. So why had he submitted himself to
that kind of agony, plus send her on this wholly unnecessary outing to Reno?
The timing between Dell’s odd behavior and Lynch being
released couldn’t be ignored. But her brother wouldn’t be so stupid as to do
something to Lynch…would he?
She slowed her car and pulled onto the off ramp.
No. It was just a coincidence. Nothing more. Besides, Lynch
had a lawyer who would ensure he didn’t get harassed. Or so she hoped.
She decelerated more upon entering Stardust’s city limits.
Two turns and one stop light later, she pulled into a spot at the sheriff’s department.
Usually the number of cars in the parking lot could be
counted on three fingers—six if they were busy. But over a dozen vehicles
populated the asphalt space…very odd. She cut the engine, unclicked her
seatbelt then grabbed the plastic bags from the backseat. She hustled up the
walkway as the biting, northerly wind kicked up. It might be May, but the
weather felt more winter-like than spring.
The interior temperature made the exterior temperature feel
balmy. Everyone wore jackets while a few folks sported hats. And a number of
extra people loitered in the squad room.
She stopped at the dispatcher’s desk. “Joan, what’s going
on? Why isn’t the heat on and what are all these people doing here?”
Joan, who wore fingerless mittens with a matching knitted cap
and scarf, shrugged. “Dell said the furnace is on the fritz and I don’t have
any idea why everybody’s here, but they’ve been going in and out of the
Sheriff’s office and the interview room all morning.”
Shasta adjusted her hold on the bags. “Where’s Dell?”
A burst of laughter turned her head. Her brother, along with
several guys she remembered running track with Dell in high school, walked out
of the viewing room. If she needed further proof something was amiss, this was
it.
Shasta dumped the bags on Joan’s desk. “Please take this
stuff to the break room. I’ll put everything away in a minute.” She beelined
across the room to where Dell stood, surrounded by his smiling friends. As she
approached, his wide grin faded from his face.
He murmured something and everyone scattered like
cockroaches in a flashlight beam. “Hey, sis,” he said in a sugary tone.
She crossed her arms. “What’s going on?”
His eyes widened in feigned surprise. “Nothing.”
“Baloney.” She pointed to the door he exited. “What’s going
on in there?”
Dell’s amicable demeanor vanished. “Like I said, nothing.”
He reached for her arm, as though to lead her away, but she dodged his grip and
rushed past him. “What the fu—Shasta…
wait
.”
Just inside the room, Shasta stopped so abruptly, Dell
rammed into her. Stunned astonishment tore through her as she stared at the
person standing on the other side of the one-way mirror.
Lynch Callan.
A
naked
Lynch Callan.
But before her brain could fully process that reality, it
registered a bluish tint to his lips and the fact he visibly shivered. And all
the odd happenings of the day fell into place…
Her “essential” trip to Reno. The furnace being on the
“fritz.” Her brother’s friends populating in the squad room…
She whirled around. Dell stood there, his posse crowded
behind him, and he almost looked sheepish. Almost.
“What the fuck have you done?” she demanded.
Dell’s eyeballs practically jumped out of their sockets. In
high school, Shasta could swear a sailor under the table, but it had been years
since she uttered anything more profane than damn.