Page 6 of Twisted Trust
As soon as the leather hits my palm, I wrench the wheel to the right and divert the screeching car from the road and onto the sidewalk.
Donald slams on the brakes and we all surge forward, then snap back as our seatbelts lock in place to protect us.
Pain smarts up and down my chest while Donald wrestles with the car and something thumps against us as we come to a short, sharp stop a few feet away.
Holy fucking shit.
Did we hit that kid?
The seatbelt refuses to come undone at the first press of the button and it takes me several presses before it finally clicks free and I’m able to throw myself from the car.
As soon as I’m out on the road, panting heavily, I spot the child sitting in the middle of the street wailing loudly.
Relief surges through me like the rush of a deflating balloon. We didn’t hit the kid. Thank fuck.
My relief is short-lived as the rest of the drivers on the road seem infinitely less concerned about hitting a child.
Those who do spot him only swerve to the side to avoid him. Some blast their horns and one yells at me in a language I barely catch as I sprint toward the sobbing child.
“Levi!” Chip’s yell carries in the wind after me, but I ignore it until I reach the distressed child and scoop them up into my arms.
I narrowly avoid a car screeching its horn so loudly that my head aches briefly, then I sprint toward the sidewalk near where our car is awkwardly parked on the pavement.
“Fucking hell!” Chip is by my side in an instant with his gun unholstered and clutched in one hand. “You take years off my life every time you run off like that,” he pants.
“Oh God…” Donald is a few feet away with his hand over his chest. “I almost hit a kid. Fuck. Fuck!”
My attention locks onto the screaming child who’s crying so hard he can barely breathe.
His tiny fists latch onto the lapels of my suit jacket and his mouth opens wide in a noiseless sob.
“Who the fuck just abandons their kid out here?” Chip’s gaze is up and scanning the perimeter for any kind of threat, likely suspecting that this kid is some kind of ruse.
Even if it is, the child himself isn’t to blame.
“Hey,” I snap sharply, trying to get the child's attention. “Hey, kid, enough with the crying, okay?”
The child’s golden eyes are positively swimming with tears, his cheeks are bright red and raw, saliva drools down his chin, and his dark brown hair sticks up in all directions.
“Mamaaaa!” he wails so desperately that an unexpected pain tugs at my heart.
“Your mom?” I ask. “Where is your mom? Did she leave you?”
“We can’t stay here,” Chip says and his hand lands on my shoulder.
“I’m not dumping the kid,” I snap.
“I’m not saying that.” Chip fixes me with a hard look. “We can’t stay in the open like this.”
I know his concerns and usually, I’d support them, but each heartbroken cry from this kid is flaying me piece by piece.
“My m–mom.” The kid trips desperately over his words as his lower lip shakes violently.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to soften my voice despite the gravel gained from years of smoking. “Where’s your mom, kid?”
“She–She!” He coughs and cries harder. “Help her!”
I stand abruptly, bringing the kid with me in my arms. Chip starts to circle me and Donald approaches while nervously running his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he gasps repeatedly, somewhat still in shock.
