Page 8 of Edge (Redline Kings MC #4)

EDGE

T he movie barely held my attention. It was background noise—muted explosions and synth strings bleeding out of the soundbar, blue light washing the walls.

What I focused on was the girl curled against me with her bare legs tucked across my lap, one of my T-shirts hanging off her shoulder like it had been made for her.

She’d fallen into that loose, heavy breathing that meant she was right on the edge of sleep. Every rise and fall of her chest brushed my ribs. Each tiny shift of her weight tugged at nerves I didn’t know I still had.

My place never felt like this. It was too clean, too controlled—dark leather, brushed steel, the unbothered hum of the A/C sliding through vents. The windows were cracked just enough to let the salt drift in. From the street below, a motorcycle rolled by at idle, then faded into the night.

On screen, a hero monologued about redemption like he’d ever bled for anything real.

Callie’s fingers tightened in the hem of my shirt and relaxed again.

Her hair smelled like citrus shampoo and the ocean she loved standing beside.

The lamp threw amber edges along her cheekbone.

The whole scene got filed under mine because that was what my head did. Cataloged. Owned. Protected.

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.”

“You’re not professionals,” I drawled. “You’re an upstart outfit sniffing a payday and trying to buy a conscience so you don’t have to grow one.”

That landed. His breath clipped in, sharp. “I didn’t call to be insulted.”

“Then hang up.” I grinned without humor. “And if you think you can bribe me into changing how I work, you’re not just green—you’re dumb.”

He tried menace next, soft and sweet around the edges like a knife in a cupcake. “We know where to find people. Sometimes we don’t take no.”

I stared at my reflection in the glass—green eyes flat as a winter river—and let the calm roll through me. I’d always had two speeds: the one that smiled and the one that ripped throats. Both were mine. He was asking for the wrong one.

“Let me be crystal,” I murmured, watching Callie shift in the corner of my eye, pulling my shirt down with an absent hand that made my chest tighten. “I don’t sell weapons. I build tools. They don’t leave my circle. You try to pry those hands open, and you’ll pull back stumps.”

“You threatening me?”

“I’m doing you the favor no one ever does. I’m telling you the truth straight.” I tipped my head, voice amused again because it came easier than the growl. “You’re not the first hotshot crew to dial this number. You won’t be the last. I shut it down every time.”

His temper finally cracked. “You think you’re untouchable because you’ve got a decent fence and some friends?”

I let a beat pass, picturing Kane’s grin when he was in a mood, the one he wore when someone put a toe over a line he drew. “I think you’re done wasting my time, Rye. And that if you take up any of mine again, you’ll learn what precision really looks like.”

He breathed through his nose like he wanted to get brave. Then the line went dead.

I thumbed the screen black and rested the phone against my thigh. The night sang. My pulse didn’t. I’d had bigger threats. I’d had worse offers. It still left a taste I’d learned to respect—the one that sat low in my gut and waited.

Most calls like that burned out fast. Once in a while, they didn’t, and you learned which were which by not flinching and not advertising. I considered alerting Kane, then decided no. Not yet.

Everyone wanted access to my work. Dealers. Mercs. Rival MCs playing dress-up. You spent your life behind a bench and a barrel, and you became a rumor. If the buzzing gnat grew teeth, I’d tell my brother.

Inside, Callie had pushed herself half upright and was rubbing her eyes with the cuff of my sleeve like a kid who’d watched a movie too late. I slid the door open and stepped back into the cool of the A/C and the smell of her.

“You okay?” she asked softly, attention sharpening as soon as she got a look at my face.

“Work,” I answered, dropping onto the couch and gathering her legs back over mine where they belonged. “Wrong number with teeth too small to matter.”

We watched the movie for a bit, then she got up to get a drink, asking if I wanted anything, and I just shook my head. When she returned and sat, I pulled her legs across mine once more.

“Tatum?” Her voice was soft, unsure.

“Hmm?” I glanced over and watched her mouth curve, then she hesitated.

“We could…I mean, if you need to handle something, I can head home. It’s late. You probably want a little—” Her hand fluttered, a nervous little flick. “Space.”

I went still. The air thinned to a narrow tunnel between her eyes and mine.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

It came out as a growl, not because I was angry with her, but because the idea of her putting distance between us scraped places I didn’t let the world touch.

Color rose in her cheeks. She leaned back an inch, not from fear—she wasn’t scared of me—but because she thought she was being polite. “We’ve been together every night this week. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

I dragged a hand over my jaw, felt the coarse rasp of beard, and fought the instinct to pick her up and toss her over my shoulder just to prove a point. My pulse settled into its old rhythm—calm on the surface, a faster drum underneath.

“You think this is a hotel?” I cocked a brow. “You think I have a long line of guests waiting to rotate through my sheets?”

Her mouth opened, then shut. “No, but?—”

I leaned in until her knees bumped my ribs, and the heat coming off her turned mine into a bigger problem. “But nothing, baby.”

She tried for steady. “You’ve been…quiet since the call. I figured I should get out of your hair.”

“I’m quiet all the time.” I tipped my head. “You just make noise I like, so I forget to be.”

She blinked. The line hit—they always did when I stopped pretending to be charming and started telling the truth.