Page 15 of City of Love

I frown at him. “Shut up and just help me, would you?”

Luc grins. “How did someone like you lose track of time?”

“Something came up,” I mutter before glaring at Luc, a silent command to drop it. He shrugs and holds up his hands but backs off, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

We move in silence to the kitchen area, where I pull out the bulk-sized box of protein bars I keep for the guys. Luc meanwhile leans down and grabs a bunch of sports drinks from the fridge. Then I dig some oranges out of the fruit basket I keep on one of the two shelves next to the kitchen counter. Most of the guys don’t have access to good food—if any food at all—so every time they come here I make sure I’ve got something to feed them. My place isn’t big enough for anyone but me to live here—it’s barely big enough for us to meet—or I’d consider it letting them stay here; at this point I just do what I can for them. That’s where my technically illegal but moral-gray-area activities come into play.

Illegal or not, I don’t regret my actions.

They’re going to have to stop, though. If not now, soon at least. That’s what this meeting is about.

The gang starts shuffling in not two minutes after we’ve got the food out. As usual no one waits for me to answer the door, though like Luc they do all knock before entering. I’ve earned at least that level of respect, I guess.

To be honest, they seem to respect me more than I ever thought they would. It wasn’t something I ever insisted upon or demanded, but I did and do expect things to be done a certain way, and the guys fall in line.

Well, most of them. Vic is the next one through the door, and I eye him, resisting the urge to sigh and shake my head. This is quite the mess he’s gotten us into. I don’t say anything to him just yet, though; I want privacy for that. Humiliating him in front of the others isn’t going to do any good.

Some ten minutes later, everyone has arrived. A few guys are crammed on the futon, two guys sit on the floor beneath the window, and four more are standing around wherever there’s room. I just look at them for a second. They’re a rough group, but being part of this gang—though I don’t like the connotation of that word—has given them purpose. Luc and I took a bunch of guys with notoriously sticky fingers and gave them something productive to do. Every bit of money we earn goes to the local food bank and homeless shelter. In return, Luc and I make sure they’re safe and fed and part of a community, even if it is just the group of us. They always have a place in the shelter if they need it, and through Luc’s job at the clinic, we’re able to make sure they have access to a doctor when they need it, too.

No red tape. No paperwork. Just action and outcomes.

Because I attended one year of university studying nonprofit management before I realized that those systems moved slower than I had patience for. The homeless shelter I passed every day on the way to university was shutting down, and it seemed like no one could or would do anything about it. There was procedure to follow, approval to gain, paperwork to fill out—all of these things to do with no guarantee that help would arrive in time. Tons of people were going to be turned out on the streets again.

So I went over to the sixth arrondissement and hung out in the Luxembourg Gardens for a few hours. After that I went to the seventh and mingled with the tourists flocking to the Eiffel Tower until night fell.

And by the time I went home, I had over two thousand euros, pickpocketed from tourists who seemed excessively wealthy. I took it to the shelter the next day, and my mission was born. I rented the cheapest flat I could find and recruited Luc, and we’ve been recruiting since then. We never looked back.

Until now.

“Hey,” I say, raising my voice to talk over the chatter and laughter. “Calm down. We have a lot to talk about.”

My voice combined with the stern look I shoot around the room does the trick; everyone falls silent, and I’m left with nine cautious pairs of eyes trained on me. Luc stands in the corner, half amused, half worried, his arms folded over his chest as he observes. Vic, I notice, won’t quite meet my eye, but it’s fine; he’ll get over it. He shouldn’t have been down in the seventh, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. We just have to make it right and move forward. And making it right has been on my mind almost nonstop for the last twenty-four hours. The only time I haven’t been thinking about our situation is when I’ve been thinking about Lydia.

Lydia. What would the guys think if they found out I’ve been writing to an American high school girl for the last three years?

That sounds significantly creepier than it is.

My brain chooses this moment to conjure the unhelpful image of the way the neck of Lydia’s shirt tugged down over her shoulder, of the way her dark lashes fanned over her high cheekbones. Why was she so appealing? Why did the sight of her pull at something deep within me?

But that’s stupid. I don’t have those feelings toward Lydia. Or toward anyone, for that matter. The last woman I was involved with was Céline, and that was well over a year ago. It didn’t last very long, either. Something about actually attaching myself to a woman tends to send me running in the opposite direction, although I would never admit out loud that what I feel is fear. But as much as I try to be honest with others—one reason I’m so uncomfortable about seeing Lydia again, because I’ve been so dishonest with her—I’m even more honest with myself. And I can admit to myself that the idea of an actual relationship with a woman scares me. Relationships are by nature unpredictable and messy, and another element of unpredictability—awoman—is the last thing I need in my life right now.

If that woman were Lydia? That would be the scariest of all. Not that anything like that would ever happen, of course. She could do way better than me.

And just like that, I make my decision on what I’m going to do. She’s going to be here for the next month, and I can’t let her anywhere close to the world I inhabit. Though I’d rather not have to deal with the Saint Clan, the timing fits well; with Lydia here and the Rolex incident going on, it looks like it’s just time to close this operation down. For now, at least.

Luc clears his throat, and I realize with a start that I’ve been staring at a spot on the wall.

“Right,” I say, clearing my throat and attempting to look natural. I pointedly avoid looking at Luc, because I’m sure he’s smirking at me like an idiot.

“Right,” I say again. “Here’s the deal.” I take a deep breath, meeting the eyes of the men around me. “We’re done with this operation. For now,” I add over the muttering that’s broken out. “Let me go on, please.”

Everyone quiets down again, and I nod curtly. “For the next month, I’ll be out of commission. This is a good time for us to lie low anyway. The last thing we need is escalated conflict with the Saint Clan—or with anyone else, for that matter. So.” I glance around me again; my men look resigned but accepting. “For the next month, we’re done. Luc will be keeping in touch with you all”—Luc nods, to his credit, considering I didn’t run this past him before I said it—“but I will be absent. We won’t be gathering weekly donations, so I expect you tokeep your hands to yourselves.”

I stress this last bit as much as possible, glaring around the room. “If you get into trouble in the next month, you will not have my support. I will not back you up or provide you with an alibi. I will deny knowing you.” I see a few eyebrows shoot up, but I ignore it. I need to make myself perfectly clear. “Are we understood?”

“Why?” Paul says after a second of silence.

I raise one brow at him, and he grimaces. In truth it’s a reasonable inquiry, but I try to discourage my men from questioning me. It’s a bad precedent to set.

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