Page 5 of Lost King

"Came in yesterday," he tells me.

"Sweet," I rub my hands together and Gabriel shakes his head. "I'm considering another piercing," I take another bite of food. Gabriel stares at me. He reluctantly did my first one because I didn't trust anyone else. That and he's the only shop in town who does them.

"Not touchin' your dick again," he grumbles.

Austin chimes in with a surprised expression. "You have your dick pierced? Do women really like that shit?"

"Hell yeah. I never met one who didn't. You considering one?" I look at him. Austin has gauges in both ears, tattoos slowly covering both arms and a small barbell piercings below a knuckle on his right hand, so for him to show interest in a cock piercing doesn't surprise me.

"Thought about it," he nods. "This chick I'm seeing has her hood pierced. Fuckin' hot if you ask me," he says.

Before he can finish the rest of his description of his woman's artwork, Bella reappears at the same time her children begin to wake from their naps. Logan grabs their son while Bella reaches for their daughter and the two of them sit down. After finishing our meal, we thank Bella for lunch, then Gabriel, Austin and I get back to work leaving her and Logan to enjoy their lunch together.

I knocked off work an hour early today to head towards the youth center. The center is about a block from where my mom runs her practice. At least twice a month for the past five years now I have been volunteering my time. I like hanging out with some of the local young men who come here for various reasons. Sometimes, they need extra help with school work, and others may have to do community service, some just need someone to talk to. All of it helps to keep them off the street and out of trouble.

Reid's old man helped start the program which teaches any kid, male or female, a trade skill. Reid has continued what his father started years ago by providing hands-on training with the addition of getting the kids involved with charity builds. I do what I can by teaching them mechanical skills, and along the way, it becomes therapeutic for them. The kids learn something and get to talk about what may be going on in their lives in an environment they feel relaxed in. I fell into the role fairly easily. For whatever reason, people find it easy to open up and talk to me about things. It's been that way my whole life. When my brothers would need someone to listen—I was there. When these kids need someone not to judge them—I'm there.

The club gives back to the community in many ways, but just about all of us do a little extra on our own, and this right here is mine. I'm passionate about helping the youth in the community. Am I the best role model they could have in their lives? Not by most societies standards. Do I give a damn what others think? Fuck no. I care about those kids, and I want to be there for them, and in the end, that's what matters. Reality is, life can fuckin' suck sometimes, but it's how you choose to handle it; it's the path you choose to make for yourself that will help determine the outcome. They don't need someone to teach them to sit around and wait for change. They don't need a handout, they need a hand up. We all have the power to control our own destiny—our own future. You want it, make it happen. That's what I teach them.

I walk around the back of the building where a small shed big enough to house a beater car happens to be located. Unlocking the padlock, I swing the doors open and walk inside. Along the back wall is a collection of second-hand toolboxes that have been donated to the center over the years. My phone chimes. Reaching into my cut, I take it out and swipe my thumb across the screen to read a text from my dad.

Dad: You staying for dinner tonight?

As I type out my answer, I grin. I love my mom's cookin'. Since she knows I'm comin' over maybe she'll make my favorite meal; meatloaf.

Me: Does a bear shit in the woods?

I'm always trying to come up with a joke to reference his job in forestry. About half a minute goes by before he replies.

Dad: 😄

I laugh as I stare at the smiley face on my phone screen. Dad loves technology, but when it comes to texting, he doesn't get it. If he wants to have a conversation with you, he calls. That was until KitKat decided he needed to get with the times, so he does it for her. Don't even get me started on the time he sent me a text meant for my mom. Knowing where my dad wanted to put his eggplant was more than I needed to know, but fuckin' with him about it every chance I get is priceless.

The sound of shoes hitting the pavement outside the shed grabs my attention. I shove my phone back in my pocket as Liam and Aiden come into view.

"How's it going, Quinn?" Liam, the older of the two greets me with a firm handshake. Liam is a senior in high school. Skippin' classes and fallin' in with a couple of older guys he wasn't aware were small-time drug pushers landed him in some trouble. He's been coming to the center for over a year now. Tough kid. Built like a linebacker, with a broad chest and broad shoulders. He was court-ordered to be here, so he didn't come willingly—at first.

"Can't complain, man," I respond, then turn my head and look at Aiden. Aiden is fourteen. He comes here after school for a place to hang out while his mom works. Aiden has had a hard time fitting in and making friends since moving to Polson six months ago. I can relate. I was once that kid. "What's up?" I ask him lifting my chin.

Aiden rubs the back of his neck. "Not much," he casts his eyes to the ground and scrubs the toe of his shoe across a dark spot on the grease-stained floor.

The kid looks like something's bothering him. "Want to talk about it?" I ask. Liam walks to the back of the shed and starts to dig in a toolbox, purposely giving me time with Aiden to find out what's goin' on. "Someone been fuckin' with you at school?"

"No. It's nothin'."

I lift the hood of the car, and Aiden walks up beside me. "Well, you see, there's this girl—" he draws out the last word, hesitating to say more. Immediately, I get a shit eating grin. Aiden is a good looking kid, but his confidence level is a zero, and he's shy as hell. "You thinkin' on asking this girl out?" I question him.

The kids gather the necessary tools they need to start disconnecting parts from the motor. As I guide them along, the conversation begins to flow.

"I see her sitting alone sometimes when my mom and I pass that ballet studio over on Baker Street on my way to my piano lessons."

That's right. Aiden plays the piano. The kid is a fuckin' musical genius.

"She looks sad. Something in me doesn't like that," he more willingly tells us.

"There's nothing to it. Just walk up to her and ask," Liam grunts and puts more torque on the bolt he's trying to loosen.

"I can't do that," Aiden answers with a sigh.