The sixth word Murphy learns to say is “Butternut” thanks to Emmett and the rest of the Tumbling Rock clan. They put a whole fuckton of effort in getting him to say it. Once he learns the word, they clap and coo each time he announces it. Of course, he loves the attention, so he says the word a lot. Oh yeah, the war is on.

I teach Minnow to call West Virginia “West Banjo,” and her brother thinks Emmett’s name is Hillbilly for the first few years of his life. After that, Murphy knows Emmett’s correct name, yet chooses to keep calling him by the nickname I gave him.

Yep, I won that battle, but there’s no denying the kids love their second home.

As soon as the twins hit their four-month milestones, Poet and I travel to Tumbling Rock. We chose to keep most of the family at bay to prevent the babies from getting sick. In fact, since born during flu season, they stayed at home except for doctor appointments.

Our first trip is stressful between worrying we’ll forget something and thinking the babies might not sleep well in a new environment. I’d called off the trip several times, having panic attacks over what might go wrong.

Finally, the spring weather tempts me to get away from home and show off my twins to a new group of people. Henrietta especially wants to meet her niece and nephew, hating how she wasn’t allowed to snuggle the shit out of them already.

“No kissing on the lips,” I tell the family before handing over my babies to be showered with love. “No offense, but people are germ-machines. If I can’t kiss them, you can’t either. Now enjoy,” I say and settle Minnow in Henrietta’s waiting arms.

Poet gives Murphy to Matilda, and we don’t see the babies again for an hour.

My man uses our trips home to do club business. Even though he acts as my bodyguard in White Horse—mostly by banging me stupid—and he’s been known to help Chipper on random errands, Poet is still the club’s enforcer. There’s no quitting the club. It’s the family business after all. One day, Murphy or Minnow might decide to ride hogs and pound people with bats. Or they could scare people from an office like I do, but those choices are a long way off for our munchkins.

“Babies have too much shit,” Poet says, standing in the cramped second bedroom where the crib and dresser barely leave space for us to stand.

“I’ve spoiled you,” I tease while we change the diapers of our squirming babies. “Now you’ll want a mansion everywhere you go.”

Poet snorts. “Can’t deny I can stretch out at your house.”

“Our house,” I remind him. “Just because it’s completely my style except for a few random objects doesn’t change how it’s your house too.”

“I don’t pay the bills.”

“You can pay them here. And you can take the lead on designing our house when we get one here. Let you pick wall colors and furniture. Make it a man’s paradise. I don’t care. I just want a bathtub. Otherwise, you’re in charge in West Banjo.”

“Hi-fricking-larious,” he mutters, grinning at my reaction to his choice in “F” words.

We pick up our prospective babies and walk to the living room where Jimmy waits. The poor dog hasn’t seen us in months, and I know he thinks Poet’s a horrible owner, and I’m essentially Yoko Ono. Now we’ve brought smelly, squealing creatures into his home.

“He loves kids,” Poet says when Jimmy watches the babies in our laps. “I wouldn’t trust him not to pee on them if given a chance, but he’s patient with their grabby hands.”

“Are you sure he wouldn’t like to come home with us?”

“He doesn’t like the car, and Henrietta is attached to him.”

“You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” I tell Jimmy and gesture for him to come closer so he can get the loving he missed. “Don’t worry, boy. We’ll be visiting lots. We’ll even bring the dogs one day.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Poet asks, forever protective of his mutt.

“Once the babies are bigger, and we have the hang of traveling with them, we can stick one dog in the car and bring him along. Introduce him to Jimmy in Jimmy’s domain so Jimmy can be the alpha. I’m saying his name a lot so he can know we love him.”

“When you’re sweet to my dog, I get a hard-on.”

“Why are you always so horny?” I tease. “It’s as if you suffered without sex for a long time or something.”

“Yeah, or something,” he whispers, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Let’s ditch our cherished children with my parents for a few hours and go into town for a date.”

This becomes our routine when we visit Tumbling Rock twice a month. We stay two days, go on two dates, and give Jimmy lots of attention so he won’t feel abandoned—even though he technically has been.

By the time the babies are crawling, we’re making plans to get a manufactured house like the rest of the family. By the time they take their first steps, we’re moved in, and their crap can spread out. Jimmy refuses to come into the new house, though. He whines outside and looks through the door, but won’t enter. I don’t know if he’s scared of the house or if he’s confused about where the trailer went. Nothing will keep him in the house. As soon as Poet carries him inside, the dog throws himself at the door until we let him out.

“Let’s see if human psychology works on dogs,” I tell Poet who is super adorably bummed about his doggy not wanting to cuddle inside. “Next time, we’ll bring Jimmy someone to compete with.”

Redondo loves getting into the car, and he loves getting out of the car. He’s a great dog to travel with, and he follows me everywhere including right into our new home. We introduce the dogs who remain wary, though not aggressive with each other. They’re both used to other dogs, but Redondo still makes Jimmy jealous. My golden cocker spaniel sits at the door, staring out at Jimmy for less than ten minutes before the mutt whines to be let inside.

Just like that, he curls up inside near Poet and claims the house as his.

Jimmy and Wheeler like each other a little too much, and I decide they’re gay and we should celebrate their love.

“Everyone’s in love now,” I say when the dogs curl up together next to Poet. “Although I’m jealous how they’re both stuck on you.”

“You can have both babies,” Poet teases and nudges Minnow toward where I feed Murphy. “Get Mama. I think there’s space on her lap.”

Minnow does crawl closer on the couch and uses her brother’s leg as a pillow.

“Aww, I used Chipper as an object too,” I coo and caress her little head. “She’s like Mama except less crazy.”

“Give it time.”

“Maybe they’ll be like you,” I say, admiring how much our babies look like their dad. “They could be mellow except for when people need killing, or a hot lady needs banging.”

His blue eyes shine with dirty thoughts. “So much banging.”

“Something in the air here sure makes you horny.”

“You have no idea,” he says and reaches over to play with Minnow’s feet. “They’ll be ready for bed soon. You and I should go hang out at the creek.”

“It’s too cold.”

“I’ll keep you warm.”

“Outdoor sex is for banjo-playing inbreeds.”

“I have moonshine,” he says, smiling in that way that kills my urge to tell him no. “And a dirty imagination. Just submit now so I can submit later when you’re riding me.”

Giggling at his expression, I don’t know why I even try to deny his pull over me. We spend half of each week in West Fucking Virginia. I live in a manufactured house decorated by a man who thinks the color brown is classy. I have a mutt for a dog, and I’ll soon ride my man outside by a creek like a common hillbilly.

I walked into that bar thinking I was hot shit and had the world in the palm of my bitch-slapping hand. Then Poet smooth-talked his way into my bed and soon owned my heart.