Page 15 of Edge
The phone on the coffee table buzzed with a call once. Then again. Persistent motherfucker. Whoever it was.
Callie stirred, lashes fluttering. “Do you need to get that?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“Probably not.” But the number flashing across the screen wasn’t one of mine, and something about the cadence of the call—a second hit so close to the first—felt like a cheap suit trying to sell me something. I eased her calf from my thighs and set her legs down gently, then slid out from under her with a kiss pressed to her temple. “Drink’s in the fridge. Don’t move. I’ll be ten.”
“M’kay.” She tucked into the couch cushion I’d just vacated, small and soft for exactly one second before the shirt rode higher, baring an indecent amount of thigh. My jaw flexed, the animal in me making a note for later, then I snagged the phone and stepped onto the balcony.
Heat wrapped around me as I slid the door shut. The night had that Gulf heaviness that made skin feel like it had been warmed from the inside out. Down the block, water hissed against pylons. The town breathed below—distant horns, the rumble of a motorcycle, and a shout of laughter that died quick.
I answered but didn’t give a name. “Yeah?”
A man tried a friendly swagger he hadn’t earned. “Mr. Beckett. Appreciate you picking up.”
“Edge,” I corrected mildly, leaning a shoulder against the frame. “No one calls me anything else unless they want to eat a bullet.”
He chuckled like we were friends, and the sound grated on my nerves. “Word is you’re the guy in Crossbend. The one who builds and tunes. Who can get me what I need.”
“Congratulations on your literacy.” I watched the way amber light pooled in my living room and cut around Callie’s knees. “But if you’re lookin’ for work on a bike or car, call The Pit.”
“That’s not the kind of build I’m looking for.”
I knew that wasn’t what he’d been referring to, but I wasn’t going to confirm his information about my specialty without more information. “You got a name?”
“Do you need it?”
“Always.”
A beat. “Riley. Call me Rye.”
“You prefer trendy whiskey, Rye, or are we talking bread?”
A sniff of offense. “I have cash. A lot of it. Upfront. And a crew behind me who understands discretion.”
I let the silence spool. People who understood discretion never told you they did. The men who said it out loud put their foot in their own traps. Asshat.
“What we’re building needs to sing,” he went on. “We’re about to move a lot of product, and it’ll go smoother if we can…persuade obstacles. Precision, man. We heard you make that.”
I made a noncommittal sound and let him keep digging.
“And we can make it worth your while.” He warmed to his pitch. “We’re not talking pocket change. Think seven figures.”
“There are plenty of assholes who’ll take your money,” I answered, amused. “Call any border county and whistle. You’ll have more firepower than sense by morning.”
“Those are scattershot vendors. We want someone meticulous. The Redline Kings keep this town tight. People say that’s you.”
People said a lot of things. “You think you’re calling a store.”
“You’re a mechanic who diversified.”
My laugh was low and sharp. “That what your source fed you? I’m a mechanic with a side hustle and a menu?”
“You build tools.”
“Information travels fast.” I let my voice go cool. “But your source missed the part where the only hands those tools end up in are mine or someone I’d die for.”
Silence on his end. The polite kind that meant he hadn’t expected the line to be that hard.
“Look,” he pivoted, enthusiasm shaving down to business steel, “we know your club doesn’t sling to civilians. But we’re not civilians. We’re professionals looking for a partner. You give us a taste, we scale.”
