“That’s your bed.”
“It can be your bed, too. Stay with me,” I appeal.
“That’s not going to work this time.” She pulls on her hand, but I'm not letting go.
“Nothing has to happen. Just lie with me. C’mon. I’ll keep you warm.”
“Dax, I don’t think–”
“Stop thinking.” I pull her forcefully, and she climbs onto the mattress. “There, that’s better.” I lie on my back and rest her head on my chest. This is nice. Just what I needed. A warm body next to me.
“Poppy?” I turn my head and get a whiff of her clean-smelling shampoo.
“Yeah?”
“What’s your real name?” I whisper.
“Fallon,” she graces me with an answer.
“I thought your fairy godmother gave you a new identity?”
“She did. I was Fiona Finch for a while, but when I broke out on my own, I wanted to be me. I didn’t want to hide. It was an empowerment thing, I guess.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Now you’re getting personal.”
“I know.”
“More personal than New Orleans.”
“We got a different kind of personal in New Orleans.” I smile from all the dirty recollections. “So, what is it?”
“McNamara,” she hums.
“Fallon McNamara. That’s a good, strong Irish name for a good, strong Irish woman.”
“So you say.”
“I do. I’m the Irish expert.”
“I won’t challenge you on that.”
“Good. You’ll lose.” I tighten my arm around her and adjust to get more comfortable.
“Go to sleep,” she orders. My bossy, bossy copperhead killer.
“Don’t smother me with a pillow.”
“No promises.”
I grunt with humor.
Even with the uncertainty of death, I am still able to pass out with no problem knowing full well there is a pit viper sleeping next to me.
9
Fallon
