“I have a nanny back at mine who’s in need of my help.”
The men narrow their eyes in confusion. “Congrats?”
“I gotta get her ready for a date.”
I skirt around the clubhouse and catch one last look at them before I disappear around the corner. “I’ll ring you when I’m done. And then you can all come over.”
EPILOGUE
CARMEN
1 Year Later
“Daddy,when am I allowed to drive one of those?”
Carter, like the good influence he is, removes the helmet as he comes into landing from a day’s ride out in the desert.
Otis always waits for them to come home, and safety matters, so they started wearing helmets. And now I have even more of a reason to be soaked through my panties. Every single evening without fail, I watch them remove the contraption in slow motion, thick spouts of grease-clad hair shining in front of my eyes.
Every day is a movie.
“Not until you’re at least twenty-one years of age, young man.” Carter steps through the gate and ruffles Otis’s hair. “Have you been getting up to any mischief today?”
Looking back, mothering a two-year-old boy was cruisy. Three-year-olds are even more difficult to handle. They develop more brains, more wisdom. They test your limits. They enjoy leavingthe premises and waving at you from the kitchen window with a clever smile on their face.
Otis knows he’s not to go beyond the gate without supervision, but the monkey does it anyway.
“No!” Otis says defensively, shoving his tiny arms across his chest. “I’ve been good.”
I shake my head at Carter.
Carter removes his leather gloves and lifts Otis into the air. “Did you know, the more you lie, the more your nose gets bigger.” He boops Otis on the snout—the only feature of mine he inherited.
“What if I want a bigger nose?”
Cheeky little thing.
“Go inside.” Carter sets Otis back down and points toward the door. “You can help Mommy with serving dinner. You remember what side of the place mat the forks go on, don’t you?”
I head inside with Otis’s tiny fingers laced with mine.
I do the knives. He does the forks.
I do trust him to handle a couple of butter knives, but I can’t afford to take any risks. It’s been a year since the warehouse, since I knifed Conrad O’Neill in the stomach and walked out of the O’Neills’ drama for good.
I’ve been trying to keep Otis distracted, to minimize danger and keep all sharp objects away from him, even child-safe scissors. A child’s brain can be a very powerful and influential thing. I don’t want Otis seeing a knife and linking it back to the time I killed someone right in front of his eyes. I can’t have him making thoseconnections, for the sake of his well-being,andfor the sake of our family.
Kindergarten is only a year away. Kids have wild imaginations, especially Otis. I’d hate for him to pretend-kill someone during group-play. I’ve had nightmares about that very anxiety where I get called in by the principal, and I have to explain why my child stabbed someone in the belly with a stick.
That would open up a messy can of worms.
With Vex, Skipper, and Carter still working for the club, we all have to be careful. As far as Otis is aware, his daddies all work at a garage, which is technically true. But what happens when he reaches puberty, when he wants to know more about his fathers. Wants to know why they sometimes return home splattered in blood, and with no skin on their knuckles.
The day is going to come where he learns the truth.
I chop up vegetables for tonight, my hand curled tightly around the kitchen knife as I dissect an onion.
Those are fine. It’s the tomatoes that make you wanna look away. The juice squirts right in your face, the color the same ruby red as fresh blood. Looking too intently into the battered tomato sends me back into that damned warehouse, where I’m reminded of who I am—a killer.
