More flashes erupt, and suddenly we're surrounded by what seems like half a dozen photographers, their cameras held high, while a couple of reporters are shouting questions that blur together into white noise.
"Is this your girlfriend?"
"Reese! How does it feel to be in a custody battle?"
"Is it true you think the boy's mother is unstable?"
My body tenses, adrenaline flooding my system. Nate steps slightly in front of Elena, his arm extended in a protective gesture. I move toward Reese and Tyler, but a photographer cuts me off, backing Reese against the building wall, his lens pointing down and just inches from Tyler's face.
"Hey! Back up!" I shout, but more cameras close in.
Tyler's face contorts, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. He turns and tries to bury his face in Reese's coat, but the flashes keep coming. Reese pulls him closer, turning to shield him from the cameras, but they circle like vultures.
"You're scaring him," Reese says firmly to the nearest photographer, a stocky guy with a beard. "Please give us some space."
He ignores her, pushing closer. "Just one more of the kid. Looking right at the camera."
My wires cross. I lunge forward, putting myself between them. "Get that fucking camera out of my son's face."
The photographer sneers in what sounds like a New York accent, "You're a public figure. You and the people with you are fair game."
Before I can think, my hand shoots out, grabbing his camera. I yank it from his grasp and hurl it across the parking lot. It hits the pavement with a sickening crack, pieces skittering across the asphalt.
"What the fuck, man?" he shouts, his face reddening. "That's my property! I’m just doing my job!"
"And that's my family," I growl, stepping into his space. "You want to see what else I can break?"
Reese quickly lifts Tyler into her arms, and he begins to cry.
My fists are clenching and I’m seriously considering caving this guy’s face in.
"Logan, let's go, enough!" Nate says, his hand gripping my shoulder, which snaps me back to reality. "Now!"
More cameras flash, capturing everything—my rage, Tyler's tears, Reese's pale face. I know I've made a mistake even as I'm making it, but I can't stop the words pouring out.
"You parasites want a story? Here's your fucking story—stay away from my family or that broken camera will be the least of your troubles."
Elena has the car door open, and Reese climbs in with Tyler, still sobbing against her neck. Nate practically shoves me inside, slamming the door as photographers crowd around the windows, their flashes turning the interior into a strobe-lit nightmare.
"Go, go, go," Nate urges our driver, who pulls away from the curb with a screech.
Inside the car, the silence is broken only by Tyler's hiccuping cries. Reese rocks him gently, whispering reassurances. When she finally looks at me, there's no accusation in her gaze, which somehow makes it worse.
"I'm sorry," I say, the words inadequate even as they leave my mouth. "I didn't mean?—"
"I know," she cuts me off, still rocking Tyler. "It's okay."
It's not okay. Nothing about this is okay.
By the time we reach home, Tyler has cried himself to sleep against Reese's shoulder. I carry him to bed, carefully removing his shoes and jeans but leaving his Blades t-shirt on—waking him for a full pajama change seems cruel after the night he's had. He stirs slightly as I tuck the blankets around him so I pick him up and take him to pee.
"The camera men were scary," he mumbles, eyes still closed.
"I know, buddy. I'm sorry." I smooth his hair back from his forehead. "You're safe now."
"You threw his camera." His voice is sleepy, drifting. He’s falling asleep on the toilet.
"I did. That wasn't a good choice."
