A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1) (15 page)

“She’s had an oil change and a polish. I did it myself, of course; I wouldn’t let those greasy-pawed dogs at the body shop anywhere near her, as much as they whined.”

Carter brushed his knuckles across the V-twin engine reverently. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed riding. A luscious image of his Peaches straddling his bike with her knees tight against his ribs as they rode to the coast, holding on to him while he pushed the bike hard and fast, slid lusciously into his mind. He discreetly adjusted himself and stood from his crouched position at the side of Kala, once more letting his hands glide over her exquisite metal.

“I’ll see your fine ass later,” he promised before he walked back over to Max and back up the stairs of the building.

“Okay, man, I have things to see and people to do.” Max smiled, leaning against Carter’s apartment door.

Carter frowned. His friend had aged considerably over the past few months. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there before. “You stay out of shit, you hear me?”

Max scoffed. “Everything’s cool, man.” But the glaze in his eyes suggested otherwise.

Max ran a hand through his dark, unruly hair and smiled nonchalantly. “Things are handled. No point getting stressed, right? I’ve learned that I can’t control shit.” He sniffed.

“Max—”

Max clapped a hand to Carter’s shoulder. “I’ll be back later with food and women. About seven, okay?”

Carter sighed, holding his tongue. “Sounds good.” He and Max clasped hands and stared at each other for a moment in silent understanding.

“It is good to have ya home, man,” Max muttered.

“It feels good.”

Max squeezed Carter’s hand. “For what you did for me and— To get put away when you weren’t even … I can’t ever thank you enough—”

“Hey,” Carter interrupted. “It’s all good, brother. I owed you.”

Max exhaled hard, anguish and heartbreak clear on his face. “Yeah. I’ll see ya later.”

Once Max left, Carter closed the door and fell against it with a loud sigh. He glanced around his apartment, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do. At Kill he’d had a routine, a schedule, people to tell him when and where he needed to be. Now he was free to do what he wanted, when he wanted. Within reason. It felt strange.

With a despondent exhale, he glanced at the clock on the wall and his mind instantly went to Peaches. She’d be in class right now with Riley and company.

Outrageously, jealousy bloomed in his stomach. “Get a grip, idiot,” he muttered. He grabbed his beer from the counter and made his way to his bedroom.

He’d have Peaches all to himself come Tuesday evening, anyway. He smiled while he stripped off his clothes and made his way to the shower. He was more than ready to wash away all remnants of Kill from both his body and his mind.

Kat pulled her bag up onto her shoulder as she made her way into the library. She walked toward the grand welcome desk and smiled at Mrs. Latham, who’d worked at the library for decades. She was there the day the Daniel Lane Reading Room opened after his passing.

“Good afternoon, Kat,” she said, pushing her glasses up her small nose. Her whole face, surrounded by curly gray hair, wrinkled when she smiled.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Latham. You’re looking well.”

“Thank you. You’re here to use the reading room?” She flicked through a schedule book on her desk.

“I am.” Kat extended a printout. “I’ve booked it indefinitely for these days at these times.”

“Ah, here we are, dear.” She handed Kat the sign-in sheet, which was empty. Carter hadn’t arrived yet.

Kat signed her name. “When my student gets here, can you tell him to come straight through once he’s signed in?”

“Of course.”

Kat wandered through the immaculate building toward the reading room constructed as part of her father’s wishes in his will. Kat had always loved to read and her father had wanted to create somewhere that not only she but other people could go to lose themselves in the pages they read.

His plan was to do it before his fiftieth birthday, which he never saw.

Kat dropped her bags onto one of the large oak tables and sat down. She pulled out all her resources for Carter so they could get straight to work. She didn’t want to dilly-dally. She got flustered enough in his presence.

The truth was, after seeing Carter so … civilian, as he left Kill, Kat had finally accepted that maaaaaybe she had a wee crush. The vision of his buzz cut and bright blue eyes, his body wrapped in a tight T-shirt and low-riding jeans, accosted Kat once again.

Why did it have to be the Ramones? She loved the Ramones. She loved them even more stretched across Carter’s wide chest and large biceps. She’d been unable to tear her eyes from his tattoo, either. Cursive black and red flames of delicious ink dressed his skin to the elbow of one arm and to the wrist of the other; the intricate vines, patterns, and words she couldn’t quite make out were stunning.

And very, very sexy.

Dammit. She’d been a train wreck. All she’d wanted to do was thank him for the amazingly thoughtful birthday present he’d given her and she’d ended up stammering like an idiot.

It was so stupid, and not simply because she was the teacher and he was her student (how cliché). Carter was from a different world. He was a different species to her, and not because of his criminal past, although that was definitely a factor. He was angry and big-headed, hostile, and cocky. He was everything she should run away from, screaming. But she couldn’t deny he was equally smart, sensitive, and funny.

Christ, what a mess. Why couldn’t he be a normal guy? Like Austin.

She glanced at her cell phone. Austin had texted her twice since the morning to wish her luck with Carter and to tell her that he was thinking of her. He was impossibly sweet, but still the uneasiness remained.

Kat started as if struck by a lightning bolt.

Was Carter the reason she was so damned uneasy with Austin? Was he the cause of the heaviness in her stomach, the discomfort, the whisper of wariness, and the reason her heart galloped?

Shit. She pushed her bangs from her face. Enough was enough. Kat knew she had to grow up and stop acting like a teenager. It was her first session with Carter outside of Kill and, by God, she was going to act like the professional she was.

Resolute, she crossed her legs and waited.

As the minutes passed, her foot began to tap the leg of the table. Fifteen minutes went by and she was still alone. And now pissed.

She checked her phone for any missed calls or texts from him. Nothing. She bit the inside of her mouth in fury. She should have known he’d let her down. He was a newly released criminal who had wild oats to sow. Why the hell would he waste time with her, even if it was part of the conditions of his parole? She was stupid to think that he’d meant it when he’d said he wanted to keep their sessions going.

Another fifteen minutes passed, and, with a string of quiet expletives, Kat began to pack her things. Screw him. If he didn’t want to take it seriously, why should she care?

A hand on her shoulder made her scream.

“Shit! Don’t!” Carter urged with his hand out to her in surrender. “Fuck. It’s me.”

She clutched a palm to her forehead, gasping for breath. “Christ. You scared me.”

“No shit,” he replied while his eyes danced up and down her body, making her stomach tighten. He grumbled something and ran a hand across his hair. A hand that, Kat noticed, was covered in oil.

In fact, most of him was covered in oil.

She studied him from head to toe. His hair was shorter; he’d obviously made a trip to the barber. His face was, as always, epically handsome, but now it had a smear of oil across its right cheek. His T-shirt, which was a black Strokes affair, was tight and dirty, and his jeans, Kat could only assume, used to be blue denim.

“What the hell happened to you?” She tried to ignore the twist of lust that unfolded in her belly when she saw the bike helmet in his hand.

Carter smirked. “I had a fight with a V8 engine and lost. That’s why my ass is late.”

The cocky look on his face reminded Kat she was pissed. She stood up and flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Yes, you’re late,” she growled. “So the session is canceled.” She whirled back around to continue throwing her resources back in her bag.

Carter’s laugh was disbelieving. “Are you kidding me?”

“No,” Kat snapped, keeping her back to him. “You’re late, and I’m not here for shits and giggles while you mess around with your toys. You didn’t even text or call to let me know!”

Carter grabbed her arm and spun her until she faced him. She gulped at the anger on his face.

“Hey,” he barked, his nose only inches from hers. “Stop bitching and throwing shit for a minute, and calm the fuck down.”

She caught his scent in her nose and on the tip of her tongue. It was deep, smoky, and metallic and made her lungs tingle.

“Let. Me. Go,” she ordered through gritted teeth.

Carter stared at his hand on her arm and let go immediately. “Sorry,” he muttered, though his eyes were still thunderous. “Look, don’t leave, okay? Just let me explain.”

She crossed her arms. “Fine. Explain.”

Carter’s eyes narrowed. “As stated in my parole,” he started through tight lips, “my job is working at a body shop that my best friend owns.” He gestured at the oil all over his clothes. “Max was having trouble with the engine on a Corvette. I offered to help just before I left and it went to shit. I would have called or texted you, but I was busy making sure that two-hundred-pound engine parts weren’t falling onto the heads of my coworkers.”

Kat considered what he’d said. He was so masculine and strong, standing in his dirty clothes with a day’s worth of stubble. He oozed carnal sex. When he’d gripped her arm he hadn’t hurt her, of course, but the sizzle of his hands on her was hard to ignore. It was still there, buzzing deep inside her in places only he could reach.

She dropped her arms and shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.”

“I’m sorry. What?” Carter bent down so he was eye level with her.

“I said fine. Let’s get on with it,” she retorted sharply. Condescending ass. She gestured brusquely to the chair on the other side of the table.

Carter dropped into the chair and began rummaging through his bag as Kat watched surreptitiously. He pulled out a large pack of Oreo cookies and placed them on the table.

Kat gaped. She hadn’t had an Oreo in years. She’d never been able to bring herself to, since they were a thing she and her dad had had. He’d always eat the center; she’d eat the cookie. Together they could demolish a whole pack in minutes. “You’re not allowed to eat in here.”

He glanced around the otherwise empty room. “Are you gonna tell on me?”

Kat sat down with a thump. “Just don’t make a mess.”

“Sure, Peaches.” He took a cookie, pulled it apart, and licked the cream center.

Fascinated, Kat watched his tongue as it flicked up, down, and around. How could eating a cookie be so sensual, for God’s sake? She cleared her throat and pushed his work toward him. He put the two cookie parts back together and rested them carefully on a napkin.

Carter perused the paper in front of him. He looked up to see her staring at the remains of his Oreo. “What? You want my cookie?”

“You … um, you only eat the inside?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “I don’t really care for the rest of it. You’re free to have the side I haven’t had my tongue all over.”

Her cheeks flamed. “No. I’m good. Thank you.”

“Well, the offer’s there. And don’t worry”—he dropped his voice—“I won’t tell, either.”

Kat held her smile. Barely. “Tell me what you know about this poem.”

He glanced down. “Well, well. This is quite a change from ‘Tichborne’s Elegy.’ You make me blush.”

Kat waved her hand for him to continue.

“ ‘The Flea’ by Donne takes a usually insignificant action—killing a flea—and turns it into a sexually deviant metaphor.”

“Sexually deviant?” Kat questioned with a thick throat. His dark gaze and sexy smirk were not what she needed to stay focused and professional.

Carter dropped his chin. “Don’t get coy with me, Peaches. You know as well as I do the poem is about Donne wanting to fuck his mistress.”

The way his mouth curved around the word “fuck” made Kat’s pulse race. “Care to elaborate?”

“When Donne talks of the blood that the flea has taken from both him and his mistress, he’s talking about sex, their bodies coming together.”

“Hmm,” Kat mused, keeping her eyes on the table and away from the devastatingly long lashes that swept over Carter’s cheekbones.

Carter shifted his chair closer to her. “Is that an
I agree with everything you just said, Carter
hmm, or a
You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about
hmm?”

“No, no, you’re absolutely right,” Kat said, looking down at the table, cursing her choice of poem. What the hell had she been thinking?

Without word or hesitation, Carter pushed her hair behind her ear and lifted her face to his. The sensation of his callused fingers against her skin shot through her body like a bullet.

“Peaches,” he murmured. “Where are you? You’re miles away.”

“I was just thinking … I know there’s a critique on this poem here somewhere.” She pulled her chin from his fingers and stood up. “I’ll go and find it. Why don’t you make some notes on your copy so we can discuss them when I get back?”

She hurried toward the shelves holding all the literature and critical works of each of them. She had to get away from him.

* * *

Carter watched her go and slouched down in his seat. He picked up another Oreo and began to lick.

Had he done too much with the hair-and-chin thing? Fuck if he knew. He didn’t want her to think he was taking advantage of the no-guard, no-camera situation, although he’d thought about nothing but that since the minute he’d woken up. Dammit, recently she was all he thought about.

Three Oreos later, she still wasn’t back. He checked the time on his cell and blew out an impatient breath.

“Fuck this,” he grumbled, standing from his chair. He shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered in the direction she’d disappeared.