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Pretend nothing happened?

Or did I call the police? Tell them what I saw? Let my name be on paperwork somewhere? Paperwork that might lead these guys right to me.

But it was wrong not to try to get that poor man justice. Could I just go on, pretending I didn’t see what I’d seen, heard what I’d heard?

I leaned forward, pressing my sweaty forehead against my knees and focused on breathing while the man told my baby all about how he was seconds away from getting in a car with a bunch of “skirts” to go back to the clubhouse and “party their asses off.”

I silently prayed that Lainey’s spongey brain was still too undeveloped to recall anything about the idea of ‘body shots’ and ‘bomb-ass margaritas’ as my body seemed to slowly work to reabsorb the adrenaline that had been surging through my veins.

“That’s a game where two pretty girls sit on the shoulders of some badass bikers,” the guy went on, completely oblivious to me as I turned my head up to watch him. “And they use these giant inflatable Q-tips and whack each other with ‘em. Like this.Bam! Pow!” he said while swinging Lainey to each side, making a gurgling laugh escape her.

“Right? Good shit. They just keep whaling on each other. And if we’re lucky, maybe a tit pops out. And then, eventually, one girl gets a good whack in.” He swung the captivated baby again. “And the other girl goes doooown,” he said, lowering both of them down so fast her belly must have fluttered, but she did a full-on belly laugh at the sensation.

The guy looked over her head, finding himself almost face-to-face with me, smirk just a little too devilish to be called sheepish at being caught in the middle of his tits-out story.

“You’re quite the storyteller,” I told him.

“Easy to be when the listener doesn’t know a damn word I’m saying,” he said, shrugging. “Feelin’ better?”

“Yeah. I think. I’m not shaking, at least.”

“Adrenaline is a motherfucker.”

“You weren’t shaking.”

“‘Cause I’m used to crazy shit. Besides, I didn’t have a baby. And I did have a gun.”

He pressed Lainey to his shoulder, using one arm to hold her there and extending his other hand to me.

I bit back the urge to tell him to use two hands. The guy was clearly experienced. Hell, maybe even more than me—who had never even held a baby before I had my own.

I placed my hand in his, promptly ignoring the weird little sizzle as our skin met, and let him pull me to my feet.

“You girls got names?” he asked.

There was no logical reason my heart felt a little gooey that he’d asked for not only my name, but Lainey’s name, but it happened regardless.

“Zoe,” I told him. “And Lainey.”

“Coast.”

“That’s your name?” I clarified.

To that, he shot me that disarming bad-boy smirk again. “Yeah, baby, that’s my name. So, the fuck happened before you damn near ran into me?”

He didn’t relinquish my daughter to me. And for some reason, I didn’t reach for her either.

She was still against him, her little legs pulled up, her lips parted like they always were at rest.

His little story seemed to tire her right out.

I went ahead and told myself I left her there because I didn’t want to wake her. Not because I kind of liked seeing her so at peace on a man’s shoulder.

That was how it was supposed to be, damnit. Until I learned that some men shirked responsibility for the sake of selfishness.

“I was, uh, dropping off an order. I do deliveries,” I added.

“Good gig for a mom,” he said, getting it.