Reckless Truths (Lost Kings MC)

“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.”