Epilogue
CARMEN
“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 leaving the 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 those connections, for the sake of his well-being, and for 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.
The same thoughts loom over me at night, but it helps to have the boys close by. I’m never short of hands to squeeze. There’s always a pair of arms to hide in until the nightmares pass.
The house we live in is everything I could’ve possibly dreamed of, and more. For starters, we don’t have neighbors. Our back yard is the desert, and it stretches infinitely in all directions around us.
A hand brushes over my back, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Evening.” Vex greets me with a kiss. “I’ll take it from here. You go outside. It’s time to practice.”
Time to practice.
I drag myself outside and follow Skipper and Carter around the back. Shooting at targets isn’t really my forte, but the men say I don’t have a choice when it comes to combat. If danger pays me a visit during the day when Otis and I are alone, I’m screwed.
Unless I’m handy with a gun.
The practice started a month ago.
I guess you could say it’s “going.”
At least I’m actually getting somewhere and hitting the target now.
“Okay.” Carter fixes the weapon in my hand. Its weight takes me by surprise every time. “You know what to do. Always look through the rearfinder first.” He lifts the gun and prompts me to take a look. “Remember—don’t remove the catch until you have the target lined up.”
“What if the target’s moving?”
“We’ll work on that in due course. Okay.” He stands back at a safe distance with Skipper. “Whenever you’re ready.”
My body always reacts the same every time whenever I’m about to shoot. I hold my breath and line the muzzle up to the target propped up in the distance, hoping for bullseye.
I pull back the catch and get over myself, shooting. The bullet darts out and ricochets off the side of the metal, hitting the target with a semi-successful pang.
I feel the recoil shudder my bones every time, and this evening is no different.
“Getting better,” says Skipper.
I’m still getting used to seeing him with short hair. A year ago, he made the decision to chop it all. It apparently marked the start of a new beginning.
He takes the gun from my hands, his palms brushing sensually against mine.
Electricity still surges through me every time one of them goes near me. When all three are near, I stand no chance. My heart races every time they ride home, smelling of diesel and grease. I look at them and feel myself combusting into thin air, especially when they’re playing with Otis.
It’s what made me say yes to their marriage proposal. I didn’t even give them time to finish speaking. They’re good for me. And for Otis.
And it’s all thanks to Sadie. I didn’t quite know how to thank her for all of her hard work over the years with Otis, but I started with New York. After getting approval from her mom, I sent her there. I bought her an apartment in the Upper East Side with the money the bikers gave me long ago.
The engagement ring glistens on my finger as the sun comes down. I still prefer their tattooed names on my ass—it’s more them. But damn, you can never go wrong with a diamond ring.
“Dinner,” calls Vex from inside.
Carter locks the weapon in the trunk of his Harley as we make it back inside.
Otis sits at the head of the table in his high chair, eager to tuck into the cooked ham…not so much the veggies.
He’s gonna have to man up one day and be a good example to his younger sibling…
Because I have a creeping feeling that the pregnancy test waiting for me in the bathroom cabinet is gonna show positive.
THE END