Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 132332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
“What’cha doin’, lil’ buddy?” Wrath asked. He crossed his arms over his massive chest and aimed his stony glare at the kid. I elbowed him in the ribs, but he seemed to be taking his role of “bad” biker seriously and didn’t relax the threatening pose. It’d be up to me to play “nice” biker—a role I wasn’t all that familiar with.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to touch another man’s tool chest?” I asked.
The kid blinked and glanced at the metal cabinet. “Actually, it’s more of a tool closet.”
“Funny guy,” Wrath said, sounding less than amused.
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.
He opened his mouth and closed it.
“Don’t lie to me either,” I warned.
“Spit it out or we’ll beat it outta ya,” Wrath added.
The color drained from the kid’s face, but he squared his shoulders and faced us head-on.
Brave little shit.
“Marcel,” he finally said.
I swept my gaze over him. Jeans short enough to show off bony ankles, worn sneakers, ill-fitting threadbare jacket. Chin lifted in defiance. “How old are you, Marcel?”
“Twelve.”
I raised a brow. Tall for his age. More than that, he was awfully young to be headed down the sort of path that would get him killed.
Without a doubt, if our president had been the one to catch him, Marcel would have been in the middle of a beating by now. Ruger wouldn’t care about the kid’s motivation for stealing, his age, or finding out who sent the kid to rob us. There were no gray areas for Ruger. No thought behind his decisions. Our president was a disappointing mix of reactionary violence, cruelty, and stupidity.
“Shouldn’t you be home watching cartoons?” Wrath sneered.
Marcel didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened and he dropped his gaze to the ground.
“Where you from, Marcel?” I asked.
“Couple blocks away.”
“Who told you to break in here?” Obviously, the kid didn’t come up with this half-assed plan on his own.
He hesitated, scraped one scuffed toe of his sneaker over the concrete floor, then shook his head. “I’m not a snitch.”
Normally, that was a quality I admired. Silence was a requirement to be a Lost King. In our world, snitches ended up in ditches.
I took a step closer. “You don’t have a choice this time, kid.”
Was it an older brother who’d put him up to it? His father? A member of one of the two rival MCs in the area?
“All right,” Wrath said, stepping forward and sizing the kid up. “Been looking for a new speed bag for the basement. You’re about the right size.”
I smothered a laugh.
Marcel lifted his head. His gaze darted to Wrath, perhaps assessing how serious the threat was. I adopted a similar pose to Wrath’s. Arms crossed over my chest and an unforgiving, relentless stare down, assuring him the threat was indeed very real.
He ran a hand over his short blond hair before he seemed to make a decision. “This guy who lives across the street.”
At least it wasn't a relative.
“We need a name, kid,” I prompted. While I had no love for rats, I admired Marcel’s bravery.
“I think his name is Keith.”
Next to me, Wrath snorted. “Keith the tweaker?”
Marcel lifted one bony shoulder. “That explains a lot,” he mumbled.
“How’d you get involved?” Wrath asked.
“I needed the money. He offered me fifty bucks if I brought the box to him.”
“You need fifty bucks that bad?” I asked.
He set his jaw in a firm, defiant line.
“Come on, kid,” Wrath snapped. “We haven’t decided if you’re gettin’ a beatdown or we’re calling the cops.”
That brought his head up, but not for the reason I thought.
“Please don’t call the cops,” he pleaded in a soft voice devoid of his earlier defiance.
I tilted my head toward Wrath. All six feet, six inches and two-hundred-eighty pounds of him. “You’d rather take a beating from him than a ride downtown?”
It wasn’t a fair question. Either way, I had no intention of calling the cops.
Marcel flicked his gaze at Wrath and scowled. “No, but I can’t afford to be at the police station all night. Or—never mind.”
“Or what?” I pressed.
He finally met my stare. Strain and exhaustion lingered in the haunted depths of his eyes. “I can’t afford to have CPS called. So just do what you gotta do.”
“Okay,” Wrath said, stepping forward.
I grabbed his arm, holding him back. “Where’re your parents?”
Marcel sighed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t know. Dad split last year. Mom’s been away for a couple days.”
“If the state takes you, at least you’ll get fed,” Wrath said.
Marcel started shaking his head before Wrath finished.
Something wasn’t right. I tapped Wrath’s elbow and we waited in silence for the kid to spill.
Marcel seemed to be weighing his options. From my vantage point, I had to admit, they were all pretty shitty.
“I can’t get separated from my sister,” he finally answered. “She needs me.”
Well, fuck if that wasn’t the one thing the kid could say that would flick Wrath’s kill switch to off. He lifted his chin. “How old is she?”