Page 68 of Marcus: Sins of the Father

“Right,” Crash scoffs. “All the empty warehouses really getting disturbed by our music.” He turns to head inside but calls over his shoulder. “Let me know if they do anything more than roll past.”

“Will do.” I turn my gaze to the road to see them making a slow turn. Well, at least with these cops up our ass, the Death Heads should keep their distance. Hell, these cops may actually be doing us a favor. I lean against the gate. It’s gonna be a long night.

***

Brandy—

I climb into my truck to head to the grocery store. I’ve been delinquent about my responsibilities, and after waking up this morning, I realized I have barely any food in the house. After a quick piece of toast to make it through the morning, it’s time to get some real sustenance.

The key clicks when I turn it, but nothing happens. I try again, but to no avail. My hands slam against the steering wheel. “Dammit.”

Staring out the windshield, I contemplate my options and finally slip my phone from my pocket to make a call.

“Hey, my car won’t start. Do you think you could come look at it? Great, see you soon.”

I climb out and head to the door. No use waiting around in the truck.

After about an hour, I hear a knock on my door. “Wow, that was quick,” I comment, opening the door.

“Expecting someone?” Marcus asks, his arm braced against the doorframe.

“Oh, hey. No, just my dad. My truck wouldn’t start. He’s on his way to look at it.”

Marcus straightens. “Why wasn’t I your first call?” I don’t miss the hurt in his voice.

“I knew you were on gate duty. I wasn’t sure how much sleep you got, and I didn’t want to wake you.” That seems to appease him.

“Billy took over for me at six am, and next time, you call me. Got it?” He lifts a brow, waiting for an answer.

“Got it.” I watch his cute ass as he walks toward my truck.

“You got the keys?” he calls over his shoulder.

I grab them off the hook and follow.

Marcus climbs behind the wheel, leaving the door open. He cranks it, but like before, nothing happens. “How old is your battery?”

“I got it replaced six months ago.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be the problem then, unless you got a lemon.” He clicks on the radio. There seems to be enough juice for it. He pushes the button for AM and then turns the dials to the left.

“Planning to listen to talk radio?” I ask, perplexed. “Won’t that just drain the battery even worse, if that’s the problem?”

He lifts his eyes to mine, smirking, and then revs the engine. The radio noise turns to a fuzzy sound. “No, I’m not listening to talk radio, smartass. It’s an old trick I learned while working at a car shop in high school. You turn the radio to the low channels on AM and rev the engine. If it makes that noise, it means it’s the alternator.”

After a run down the street to a parts store, Marcus is now under my hood, taking off the old alternator.

He’s been out there about an hour, when I glance out the window, seeing him hard at work. Wanting to help and say thanks, I decide to make some coffee. It’s afternoon, but with it still being winter, there’s a chill in the air.

By the time I make it outside juggling a carafe and two mugs, I see my dad and Marcus both bent over the car handing each other tools.

“No, no. The 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner Superbird has 425 horsepower. Hell, it was designed for racing.”

“That may be true, Mr. Arrington, but the 1963 Pontiac GTO is the greatest of all time. It was the original muscle car.”

“All right, all right, agree to disagree. And call me Gerald.”

“Will do.”

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