Page 10 of Reckless Love

But the motorcycles, either because they realize they’ve gone too far or they’ve done as they intended, streak away, the sound of their engines getting farther away as our vehicle veers onto the shoulder of the road.

Immediately, our driver hops out, slamming his door.

I rub Landon’s back, and I peer at the front windshield. Whatever landed on it is pinkish-red and large, and it hit with enough force to cause a web of thick cracks.

“I’m going to pop out and see what that is, okay?” I say to Landon.

“No, no, no,” he says, trying to cling to me.

“We’re safe,” I say in a soothing voice. “They’re gone. We’re safe.”

“Don’t leave,” he says again, and I don’t have the heart to get out.

It’s not long before another car’s tires crackle on the gravel at the side of the road as they pull in behind us. When I glance over my shoulder, my heart kicks.

Stephen.

“Do you want to get out with me?” I ask Landon.

“No more bad people?”

“Stephen’s here,” I say. “You met him at the house the other day. The big, tall guy?”

“Stephen!” Landon’s face lights up. Every day, he’s asked when the first guy is coming back. “Yes, Stephen!” He unbuckles his seat belt and scrambles out of the car before I can.

“Hey, buddy,” I hear Stephen say. “You should get back in the car. We’re on the edge of the highway here. It’s not that safe.”

I climb out my side, and Stephen shakes his head as though he knows I got out because he said my son shouldn’t.

“What’s on the windshield?” I ask.

“A frozen steak,” Stephen says. “More like a roast, actually.”

“They’re unionizing because they feel poor, and they’re throwing meat at my car?” I say with a huff. “Make it make sense.”

“One roast,” Stephen says, raising his finger. When Landon is in front of him, he scoops him up, but he’s still not really making eye contact with me.

“Still,” I say, “it’s such a waste.”

“They’re returning it,” Stephen says.

“What’s that mean?”

He turns to face me, Landon still in his arms, and my chest tightens at the sight of them together. My son, so tiny, so innocent next to Stephen’s natural bulk. I’m tempted to squeeze my eyes closed to avoid having the image burned into my brain. It’s the last thing I need right now.

“Marlo,” Stephen says to my driver, his gaze boring into mine, “you drive this back. I’ll bring them in mine.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, dipping his head. “I’m sorry I let you down, Mrs. Santos.”

“We’ll discuss all the ways you let everyone down later,” Stephen says. “Get the windshield fixed and the car cleaned. You’ll be reassigned. Is there a car seat I need to grab?”

Marlo runs a hand down his face, and his shoulders are slumped. “No,” he says. “Bellerive law has kids out of car seats at five.” He gets into the filthy, damaged car.

“Doesn’t feel that safe,” Stephen mutters, more to himself than anyone.

“I don’t know what you expected Marlo to do,” I say to Stephen once he drives away.

“Get in the car,” he says to me, his gaze tinged with annoyance.