“Your friend March works fast,” I note as I scribble down essential items and Aisling runs back and forth like a lunatic. She’s got some serious energy to burn.

  “He’s the best. That’s why he’s mine.” She slams a loaded magazine into each grip with a loud click.

  “You’re so hot when you handle a handgun.”

  “Shut up.” She places both the guns on top of one of the high cabinets.

  “You need to learn how to take a compliment.” I make a funny face at Aisling as she does a little happy dance in front of me.

  “Tell me how fabulous I am after we kill Ronan.”

  “It’s a deal. I might throw in a few nice words in between, too.” I wink.

  “Whatever floats your boat.” She’s aloof. “Done with the list?”

  “Yup.” I hand her the small pad.

  “Jesus, all you're missing is a bounce house and a clown, and we’ll have enough stuff for a birthday party.”

  “Should we get a bounce house?” I seriously consider it.

  “No. It’s November. In upstate New York. We already had the conversation about the baby freezing to death, remember?”

  “Good point. Although she’ll be moving. It would take much longer.”

  Fallon picks up one of the burners with a little, tiny, almost unnoticeable smirk.

  “You stay put.” Fallon is once again ordering me around. “Aisling, watch him. Make sure he stays out of trouble.” Then she walks out the door.

  “She left you in charge? What kind of horseshit is that?” I lift Aisling off the floor and give her a little toss. “You can’t even use the potty.” She giggles from deep down in her belly.

  I was right when I said March works fast. By seven a.m. the next morning, we were unloading an entire car full of stuff. Clothes, food, supplies, and enough baby shit to keep Aisling occupied for a year. Hopefully.

  I don’t know how long we’re going to be holed up here, but if March is as fast with our new identities as he is with everything else, we should be all right.

  Fallon hands off the keys to our getaway car to the runner, and a switch is made. Gone is the Volkswagen that can be connected to us, and left in its place is a Hyundai that’s a dime a dozen.

  “If and when we get out of this, the first thing I’m buying is a sports car. Convertible, with a turbo-charged engine.”

  “That doesn't sound very family-friendly.” Fallon and I carry in the last of the groceries.

  “I’ll make sure I have a hybrid for Aisling.” I scan around the outside of the trailer. Our delivery has garnered some attention. A couple of the same guys from yesterday are hanging about, smokin’ cigarettes, sizing us up. I shoot them a hard look, then slam the door closed. If they know what’s good for them, they’ll only look.

  “Jesus Christ.” Fallon nearly trips over a box. “There's too much shit in here.”

  “Once I put everything together, it won’t be so cluttered.”

  “Well, do it fast.” She kicks the box out of her way so she can start filling up the refrigerator.

  There is shit everywhere. Boxes piled on top of boxes. Bags all over the floor.

  “I would put the big stuff outside, but it might not be there for very long,” I hint to the loitering spectators.

  “Agreed.” She exhales a breath, her cheeks puffing.

  I try not to make it obvious that I’m enjoying her domestic side. She'd probably stab me if I even insinuated she had one, but watching her sort bags of food, free of death and destruction, puts her in a new light. It’s so normal. And so strangely hot.

  Fallon is a phenomenal woman. It’s hard not to be drawn to her. No matter what light she’s in. But there’s this side to her. This femininity encased in a tough exterior. A beauty that’s like none other. Exotic, yet with all the qualities of the girl next door.

  Fallon spontaneously stands straight up and listens for something. “Where is Aisling?”

  “Hmmm?” I snap out of my musing.

  “Aisling, your daughter. It’s too quiet in here.” She looks around, as do I.

  “She was just here.” I swear, right beside me.

  Fallon nearly hurdles over all the boxes to get to the back of the trailer, with me right behind her. We look in both bedrooms, but nothing, then we open the bathroom door.

  “Fuck me.” I balk when we discover the destruction.

  The tiny bathroom is trashed. It, along with Aisling, is covered in shaving cream, opened bandages, and gauze pads.

  “She works fast.” Fallon laughs.

  “How the fuck did she even get the shaving cream open?” I want to pull every strand of hair out of my head.

  “Toddlers are geniuses.” Fallon is getting way too much amusement out of this.

  “How would you know?”

  She just shrugs, consciously keeping a secret from me. “Have fun cleaning that up.” She taps me on the chest.

  “Fun, right.” I place my hands on my hips and peer down at Hurricane Aisling. “Little lady, really?”

  She just laughs and claps, sending shaving cream splattering all over the place.

  “Hey, Paddy, catch.” I look up just in time to see a roll of paper towels flying toward my head. Reflexively, I nab it. “Good hands.”

  “You should know.”

  “Shut it.” Fallon goes back to loading the refrigerator.

  Why does she get so upset when she provides the openings? That is a debate for another time. Right now, I need to hose off my daughter. “Bloody hell.”

  Doing acrobatics so I don’t break my neck on the slippery floor, I somehow manage to run a bath and strip Aisling out of her clothes and diaper. Once she is safely in the tub, I wipe down the floor, wall, and sink as she splashes, using nearly the whole roll of paper towels. After that, I get started on Aisling. Thank Jesus shaving cream is soluble. “It’s even in your ear? C’mon,” I complain.

  Once I’m done, it looks like we both took a bath.

  “Fallon, can you throw me a towel?” I realize I have nothing to wrap my little bugger in.

  She whips it at me when I’m not looking, and it wraps around my head. “Dirty!” I yell.

  “You would know,” she responds.

  Oh, using my own tactics against me. I see how it is. I emerge from the bathroom with Aisling wrapped like a burrito.

  “Holy shit. Aisling isn’t the only one who works fast.” The place looks a thousand times more organized than before.

  “I work better with everyone out of my way.” She’s smug.

  “Clearly. Baby clothes and diapers, then?” Since I have no idea where anything went.

  “Both in your room,” she directs me.

  “Grand.”

  “Will she eat eggs?” Fallon asks as I battle to put pants on Aisling.

  “If she feels like being cooperative.”

  “Well, I’m making some. Let’s see what happens.”

  “It’s a plan.” Aisling kicks me in the thigh once her pants are on. “Ooch, ya little rascal.”

  I put her on her feet and let her loose before collapsing onto the bed exhausted. “Dear Lord, it’s only nine a.m.”

  “Dax!” Fallon calls. “Come wrangle your wild stallion. Eggs are ready.”

  “Shite.” I didn’t get a chance to put the highchair together yet. Sometimes, I can’t believe this has become my life. Highchairs and pack ‘n plays and bath time. It’s way more tiresome than thieving and killing. Keeps you just as busy, though.

  “Dax!” Fallon yells again. And I hear a crash. “Fucker.”

  “I’m coming.” I run out of the bedroom with my shirt still soaking wet. Fallon is trying to plate eggs while Aisling knocks over every box she can possibly manage.

  “Quit that.” I scoop her up. “I have to put the highchair together,” I tell Fallon.

  “Fuck that, put her on your knee and feed her.”

  “You hate me, clearly.”

  “Hate might be a strong word, but you’re not too far off. I’ll put the highchair together.” She grabs a serrated knife out of a drawer and points it at me.

  I growl under my breath. “I guess I’m not in a position to argue at the moment.”

  “No, you’re not.” She leaves me to tend to Aisling. I have a feeling Fallon isn’t going to leave many opportunities to bond with the little one.

  I try to feed Aisling with one hand as Fallon rips open the highchair box. It's not in that many pieces, but it takes her long enough to put it together. Aisling fights every bite of scrambled eggs. “All don. All don!” She isn't having it, but I manage to get as much into her mouth as on the floor.

  “No,” she cries, and I’ve had enough.

  “Fine, you’re done.” I set her free.

  “Finished.” Fallon stands, flipping the assembled highchair right side up. I grimace at her. Too little, too late. She reads my expression clearly. “She’ll have it for lunch. You can restrain her like a hostage.”

  I spit a laugh. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the hostage.”

  “It definitely doesn’t look easy.”

  “It’s definitely not.” Aisling runs into me and wraps herself about my leg. This child is going to take out a knee one of these days. She puts her hands up and yawns, and I know exactly what that means. Nap time. Hallelujah.

  I pick her up and sigh. “No pack ‘n play yet either.”

  “Go lie with her. I got it,” Fallon volunteers herself again.

  “I should be doing all this,” I gripe.

  “You are doing enough,” she alludes to Aisling whose head is resting on my shoulder.

  I stare at Fallon as I hold my daughter. There is so much I want to say, so much I want to unload, yet I have no words to communicate it. “Can you hand me that stuffed bunny on the chair?”

  Fallon waits a beat before breaking our eye contact. She hands me the new bunny, and I walk Aisling into the bedroom.

  I lie down, cuddling her in my arms. She holds onto her gray bunny with floppy ears, fidgeting until she’s comfortable. When she stops moving completely, I know she’s out. I’ve discovered so many of her little signals over the last few months. I’m learning to read her like Braille. This cry is for this, that grunt is for that.

  Her soft, sweet breathing is a soothing melody. When she sleeps, she’s an angel right here on earth. All the trying times get erased, and the only thing left is love. The richest love I have ever experienced. A love that has changed me profoundly.

  I kiss her forehead, close my eyes, and drift off knowing for now, she’s safe in my arms.

  7

  Fallon

  A loud crash and a scream startles me awake.

  I grab the gun from underneath my pillow and run out of the bedroom.

  “I’m only armed with a baby.” Declan freezes with one hand in the air. I lower my gun with an annoyed sigh.

  “I thought we were under attack.”

  “Only from the terrible twos.” Declan places Aisling in her highchair. “She knocked the plate out of my hand.”

  “It’s a casualty I can live with.”

  “Not me. I was looking forward to that sausage.”

  “Five-second rule?”

  “Nah, I’ll just make more.” Declan just stands there staring at me.

  “What are you looking at?” I demand defensively.

  “I like your outfit.” I glance down at what I’m wearing. A T-shirt that barely covers my ass and a pair of underwear. The gun my accessory.

  I should probably go change, but I’ve had so little entertainment the last few days.

  “It’s comfortable.” I walk toward him, and his eyes widen like an ensnared K-9. “I’ll take some breakfast now that I’m up.” I place the gun on top of the cabinet, far out of reaching distance from Aisling. Lord only knows what damage she’d be capable of if she got her hands on it.

  I make myself a cup of coffee and sit down at the small table in the kitchen.

  Declan hasn’t moved a muscle.

  “You aren’t going to change?” he asks.

  “Do I need to?” I tuck one leg under the other.

  “No, not on account of me.” His alight gaze slides down between my legs.

  “Sausage?” I request.

  His eyes jump up to mine. “I have every kind you want.”

  “The breakfast kind is good for now,” I smirk devilishly as I sip my coffee.

  “We can start there.”

  “We can end there, too.”

  “If that’s the case, don’t be such a fucking cock tease.” He turns around and lights the stovetop. Aisling bangs her hands on the highchair tray. “Lon Lon.” That’s the name she has bestowed me.

  “Morning, munchkin.” I push a marshmallow-shaped rainbow from her dry cereal toward her, and she eats it happily. “Who’s being a cock tease?”

  “You are. Parading around half naked talking about sausage.” Declan cleans up the mess on the floor. Lucky for us, Corelle rarely breaks.

  “I have to get my kicks where I can.”

  “Well, it’s not funny.” He slaps some more sausage into the pan.

  “You’re extra testy this morning.”

  “You’d be, too, if you hadn’t gotten laid in months.”

  “Probably,” I agree. “There are other ways to take care of yourself.”

  Declan turns on a dime and leans into me. He gets so close I have to jerk my head back. “It isn’t the fucking same as being inside your sugar-coated pussy.”

  My lips part from his brash statement.

  “Finish the fucking sausage. I’m going to shower.” He storms off, leaving breakfast to me.

  Well, that was more entertainment than I bargained for.

  “Your daddy needs to get laid.” I make a silly, guilty face at Aisling. “But not by me.”

  She claps and laughs. Sometimes she can be adorable.

  When Declan finally comes out of the shower, his energy doesn’t feel so uptight. I have a feeling he took my advice.

  I took pity on him and put on a pair of shorts. No more teasing if he’s going to get so shitty about it.

  “Have you heard anything from March yet?” he asks as he helps himself to a piece of sausage.

  “Nothing yet. But he’s working as fast as he can.”

  Declan nods. “The sooner the better.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’m going to take Aisling for a walk. I need some fucking air. This place feels like it’s closing in on me.”

  “Hey.” I grab his arm, but he isn't receptive to my touch. “I didn't mean to piss you off.”

  “Yeah, well, you did. I get it. You’re mad at me. We had a thing. I know that. I felt it too, but my shitty circumstances fucked it all up. Ronan and his family have done nothing but screw with me since the moment I met them. I am trying to do one damn thing right in my life. And that’s her.” He points at Aisling still in her highchair. I gave her whipped cream to play with. She’s been occupied for an hour. “And it’s clear I’m pretty shit at being a father, too–”

  “That’s not true,” I interject.

  “The jury is still out.” He unhooks Aisling and rips her out of the highchair. “So, if you don't fucking mind, can we just live under the same roof civilly, keep our privy parts covered, and avoid all sexual innuendos.”

  I stand there speechless as Declan hastily wipes Aisling down, puts her coat on, and then his own.

  “Fine,” is about all I can manage before he rolls the stroller outside.

  “Good.” He slams the door behind him, and I’m suddenly fucking irate.

  It bothers me that he’s mad. And I hate myself for it. I shouldn’t give a fuck, but I do. He isn’t supposed to mean anything. But he does.

  “Fuck.” I kick an empty box and pace the room. He’s right. Being cooped up in this shitty trailer is making us both nuts.

  I grab the laptop March sent and decide to do something utterly normal and non-killerish. Surf the Internet.

  Opening my Bad Bitch playlist on Spotify, I blast a little Celebrity Skin while I'm alone. I then log into Farrah’s Snapchat profile that March hacked for me. This is the most incognito way I can spy on her. I know we keep in touch through email and all, but it’s always good to have secondary channels. She’s a teenager. She isn’t going to tell me everything, and despite not wanting to be a big part of her life, I want to make sure she stays on the right path. I want to make sure she doesn’t live the horrors I did. My father forbade me from having social media. From having friends, from having any kind of social life, basically. It was school. And only school. And I was his. And only his. His little girl. And when I was young, I loved all the attention because I didn't understand. But as I got older, I began to see the truth. Something was wrong. Our relationship was wrong. And I am determined to make sure Farrah doesn’t suffer the same atrocities I did. Which by the looks of it, she isn’t.

  There are tons of snaps of her smiling with friends, and silly pictures of her with elf filters since it’s so close to Christmas. She looks happy, which in turn, doesn’t make me want to murder anyone.

  A new picture pops up of her trying on a formal dress. It’s dark blue with rhinestones outlining the top and mid-drift. Hashtag wear-what-you-want-and-make-it-look-good.

  I smile. She got that advice from me. In not so many words. And she does look damn good. I stare at the picture as Billie Eilish sings about being the bad guy, smiling ear to damn ear. If Farrah is one thing, it’s the best distraction.

  With my mood lifted, I decide to start tidying. This place is a wreck.

  Blasting Missy Elliot, I get my freak on and clean the fuck up.

  I get a good amount done while Declan is gone. He’s been out with Aisling for most of the morning. I hope she doesn't come back an ice cube wrapped in frostbite. Rapping along with some old-school Foxy Brown, I wash the whipped cream off the highchair tray. Jeez, this stuff is sticky. When I spin around, I find Declan standing there watching me, his expression priceless.

  “Fucker. How long have you been standing there?” I rush over to the computer and turn the music off.

  “Long enough to get a damn good show.” His smile is perversely amused. “Please, don’t stop because of me.”