His gaze ping-ponged from the truck to his house.
“You can call it a loan if it makes you feel better.”
That worked.
The trip to the store was a quick one. Marcel carefully selected basic items—milk, eggs, peanut butter, jelly, bread, butter, hot dogs, boxed mac ’n’ cheese, cans of chicken, tiny bottles of apple juice—nothing fancy. Most of it seemed to be for his sister. He didn’t try to fleece me or buy the normal junk food a twelve-year-old kid might want. His approach to shopping was more adult than Wrath’s or Zero’s. Somehow that depressed me even more.
After my mother died when I was little, my father fully embraced the lifestyle of a deadbeat dad, frequently leaving me alone or with random women. I didn’t have any siblings to care for. By the time I was Marcel’s age, I was chasing girls, not pretending to be the adult of the household. I’d had a charmed childhood compared to what Marcel seemed to have been through.
Back at the house, I followed him inside with the groceries. We set everything on the kitchen table. Then he went to check on his sister.
The other two kids were still curled up on the couch together.
“Blake,” Marcel whispered. “I’m back.”
Slowly, the redhead blinked and sat up, careful not to disturb the tiny dark-haired bundle curled next to him.
“Marcel? Are you okay?” He rubbed his eyes. “What’s going on?” His gaze darted to me and his eyes widened when he took in the black leather cut I wore. “Shit. You got caught?” He positioned himself in front of the little girl, as if he thought I posed a threat, and he wanted to protect her.
If I was a threat, the gesture would have been futile. But since I wasn’t, his attempt to protect the little girl was sweet. Heartbreaking even.
I glanced down at Marcel. “That’s your sister?”
“Heidi, yeah.”
“You’re Blake?” I asked the little ginger bodyguard.
He nodded.
“All right.” I nodded at Marcel and stepped into the hallway. A heavy sigh eased out of me. Maybe a good citizen would’ve called some agency and reported the obviously neglected kids. That wasn’t going to be me. The three of them would get split up for sure. I’d known enough kids who’d gone through the system to know sometimes it was worse. Never mind the fact that bikers didn’t handle problems by calling in the cops.
Instead, I reached into my pocket, curling my fingers around the money I’d stuffed in there earlier. “Take this.”
Marcel’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“For giving us the tip about Keith.”
At the mention of the guy’s name, Marcel’s mouth twisted.
“Don’t worry. He won’t be sending you on any more jobs. Wrath’s having a chat with him now.”
“Oh.”
I glanced around for a piece of paper, but all I found was a stack of textbooks on the dining room table.
“What’s your favorite subject?” I asked.
“Math. I’m good with numbers.”
Willing to steal or not, I could tell he wasn’t the sort of kid who would accept handouts.
I flipped open his math book and scribbled my number on the inside. “You need something, call me. I’ll put you to work.”
“Okay.”
Before leaving, I gripped his shoulder and gave him one last stern look. “Stay out of trouble.”
He rolled his shoulders back and lifted his chin, a hint of his earlier boldness returning. “I’ll do my best.”