A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1) (16 page)

“Peaches?” he stage-whispered, searching each aisle.

He’d checked four of the motherfuckers before he finally found her standing on a tall ladder, reaching for a book on the highest shelf. He walked up to her, slowly and silently, his eyes level with the backs of her calves. He couldn’t help but lick his lips at the sight of the soft creamy skin. She hadn’t noticed him standing there, leaning against the shelves, tracing the curve of her leg with his gaze. His hand twitched of its own volition and, before he had any comprehension of what he was doing, he was reaching out to stroke the back of her knee.

“Carter!”

He jumped at her screech but then righted himself as she wobbled on the step and slipped back, grabbing at the books in an effort to stop her fall. He clutched at her waist, grazing the undersides of her magnificent boobs, making sure she didn’t hit the floor. She landed against him, resulting in a resounding “Oomph” when his back collided with the opposite bookshelf.

“Seriously, Carter, that’s twice today you’ve scared the hell out of me,” she grumbled, pushing away from him.

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” he muttered, rubbing the bottom of his spine. “I just saved your life.”

“
You’re
the one who made me fall,” she pointed out.

She’d taken a step back from him. What the hell was that about? He shifted near her, placing the flat of his palm against the spines of the books at the side of her face. He could smell her hair. Fuck. It did still smell of peaches.

“Is everything all right, Miss Lane?”

The two of them startled at Mrs. Latham’s voice. Carter blinked, realizing how close they’d been standing to each other.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Peaches replied to the old woman, who was eyeing Carter. He smirked.

“I heard a scream.” She adjusted her glasses.

“Yeah,” Carter interrupted. “That was me. I saw a spider. Fucking huge. I’m terrified of them. Kat saved me.”

He flashed her his trademark smile to seal the deal, but the small librarian didn’t look impressed.

“Well, as long as you’re okay, Miss Lane.”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Latham,” Peaches assured her.

The old lady took one more disapproving look at Carter before disappearing back toward her desk. Peaches collapsed into giggles. He laughed, too, watching her nose crease up and emit a small snort.

“Spiders,” she managed.

“What?” he asked, resting against the bookshelf next to her. “I hate them.”

She shook her head. “You’re one of a kind, Mr. Carter.”

He beamed. “You know it.”

They stared at each other for a small moment, seemingly lost in their own thoughts, before Peaches slapped the large book she’d grappled from the shelf into Carter’s stomach.

“Jesus!”

“Here,” she said with a smile. “Let’s find out more about your deviant sexual metaphors.”

Carter laughed and watched her fine ass walk away. “I thought you’d never ask,” he muttered, following quickly after her.

“Fuck it!”

Carter looked up from the screwed-up carburetor in his hand to see Max kicking the tire rim of the V8 Pontiac GTO he’d been cursing at for the past hour.

Carter walked over to him, wiping his grease-covered hands on a rag he pulled from his pocket. “Whoa, whoa, man, chill out. We don’t hit the ladies. What’s up?”

Max threw his hands through his hair. “This piece of crap.” He gestured toward the car.

Carter’s eyes widened in mock horror. He placed his palms against the driver’s door of the burnt-orange vehicle. “Don’t listen, baby,” he whispered to the car. “He doesn’t mean it.”

Max shook his head. “Whatever, man, I’m done.”

Carter frowned and propped his forearm on the car roof. “You’re done?” he asked in a baiting tone. “You give up so easy?”

“No,” Max snapped back defensively. “I just can’t—the fucking thing’s still idling high and— For fuck’s sake, Cam, turn that fucking shit down!”

Cam scurried to the stereo in the corner of the room and turned the Foo Fighters down to a dull roar.

Carter kept his stare on Max, knowing there was more to his bitching than the car’s high idling.

Max turned away from Carter’s meaningful look and opened a can of Coke he then proceeded to gulp. Once it was gone, he turned back to his friend, falling against the wall before sliding down. His eyes met Carter’s briefly before explaining quietly, “My blood sugar’s low, man.”

Having been diagnosed with hypoglycemia when he was a kid, Max managed to keep his blood sugar on a fairly normal level, but he was a cranky son of a bitch when it dropped. Carter reached into his back pocket and retrieved his bag of mini Oreos, throwing them at his friend.

Max put one in his mouth and hummed in pleasure. He offered the bag to Carter, who took two for himself.

“So, what else is up?” Carter asked after a moment of Oreo-appreciative silence. Max averted his eyes from Carter, who dropped to the floor next to him. “Since when do we keep secrets, Max?”

“I don’t have any secrets,” Max answered with a shake of his head. He looked so weary. “You know all there is to know.”

“Oh, really?” Carter countered. “So, if I know everything, when exactly were you going to tell me that you’re doin’ blow on the regular again?”

Max kept his eyes on the floor between his feet. “It’s just recreational, man.”

“I thought you were going to cut that shit out,” Carter said in exasperation.

“I know. I tried; you know I did. But it takes the edge off.” He rubbed his face with a somnolent hand. “I’m not … I’m not sleeping great. Truthfully, I haven’t slept great since … since she … Look, it gives me a boost.”

Carter’s stomach clenched for his friend and his inability to speak about the woman who’d broken his heart. He looked so lost. He nudged Max’s shoulder with his own. “I’m here if you wanna talk about Liz—”

Max’s head snapped up, his eyes burning. “Don’t.”

Carter sighed. “Okay. But you need to be honest with me.” Carter gave Max a pointed stare, which Max accepted with a slow nod.

Honesty had always been so important to the friendship they’d built over the years: honesty and trust.

“Dude, you look like shit. Your temper’s raw. You’re handling an expensive habit. Paul told me the books for the shop aren’t good. If you kick this shit, you know I can help you with the money side of—”

Max shook his head. “No, Carter. I don’t want your money. I’ve told you before.”

“It’s not my money,” Carter bit back. “It’s Ford money.”

“Whatever,” Max continued. “I’m not taking it. After you went to Kill for me and Liz …” He trailed off, the name clogging his throat with emotion. Then he coughed a bitter, cold laugh. “What a waste of fucking time that was.”

“Have you heard from her?” Carter hedged softly. Max rarely spoke of the woman who, by walking out on him and disappearing without even a “fuck you,” had shattered his heart six months after Carter was sent to Kill.

Max shook his head before he dropped it back against the wall. “Nothing. Not even a fucking text. Nothing since the day she left.”

Carter placed a hand on Max’s shoulder and squeezed, hating what Lizzie Jordan had done to his best friend. Because of her, the son of a bitch was brokenhearted and nursing a coke habit that was liable to land him in prison, or worse.

“The offer’s there, okay?” Carter said softly. “I’ve got your back, man, you know that, but I’m on parole. I gotta watch my back, too.”

His parole wasn’t the only reason to keep his nose clean, though. Contrary to popular belief, he’d pulled away from all the drug shit a year before he was sent to Kill.

“It’s all good,” Max said, his mask of indifference sliding over the pain. “It’s under control, I promise. Hey, I’m meeting a couple of guys next week for a sweet deal that’ll clear everything. You want in?”

Carter’s infuriated eye roll made Max laugh. “Asshole. Yeah, let me just call my parole officer and ask if that’s okay.” He thumped Max’s arm. “You be fucking careful, you hear me?”

Carter’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Standing and moving away from Max, he pulled it from his overalls and smiled.

Peaches.

Try not to be late again.

“That your tutor?” Max asked with a knowing smile. “Shit, son, when you gonna hit that?”

“Shut up,” Carter grumbled.

Max laughed again, his game face back on. “What’s with you and her, huh? Is it that way?”

Carter cleared his throat. “No,” he breathed. “It’s not that way.” He licked his lips and looked at his best friend.

“Sure,” Max teased. “If you haven’t boned already you’re desperate to, man. It’s written all over you. Not that I blame you. Damn.”

Carter held back the growl of possessiveness that threatened to creep up his throat. “It’s complicated.” He paused. “She’s … she’s Peaches.”

Max’s eyes popped wide. “Peaches? The girl in the Bronx, with the dad who— No shit?”

Carter raised his eyebrows. “Shit.”

The night Carter had saved her, he’d told Max everything. It was only then, with his friend at his side, adrenaline still coursing through his veins and the sound of gunfire still resonating around his head, that he’d openly wept from the fear.

Max scrambled from his place on the floor. “Does she know? I mean, have you said anything to her?”

Carter clutched the bridge of his nose. “No. I haven’t. I wouldn’t even know where the fuck to start.”

Max crossed his arms over his chest. “I hear ya.” A small smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. “Damn, brother, after all these years. You found her.”

Carter smiled small and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Max smacked a playful hand to Carter’s biceps. “Get on that. Girl done grown up good.”

Carter snorted. No shit. Though Max’s suggestion that he hit it and quit it would ordinarily have his panty-dissolving smolder firmly in place, with his Peaches it seemed too … crass. She deserved more than that.

He glanced at the clock. It was three fifteen. Less than one hour until he saw her. He texted back.

I wouldn’t dare.

And he was only half kidding. He’d been more than a little surprised at her reaction to his tardiness at their first session. She’d looked ready to rip his head off, and he could see where she was coming from, but, damn, girl had a temper. Not that he was one to talk. But after the whole stern-talking-to, falling-off-ladder debacle, the session had gone pretty well.

It was strange how time passed so fast when he was with Peaches. It seemed so easy to be with her. He liked her sass and enthusiasm. It made him remember his own love of the written word, and he liked talking to her about the writer’s word choices and the intricacies of it all.

In fact, he liked talking to her, period. Talking to her—and now touching her. He couldn’t help but think about how soft her hair was when he’d pushed it behind her ear, or the silkiness of her skin at the back of her knee. Would her skin be that soft all over?

He cleared his throat and shook his head of the image of her wrapped around him as he pounded into her among the bookshelves.

Christ.

He wanted more. And not just in the let-me-see-what-you-look-like-naked sense.

What would it be like just to have an everyday conversation with her? The day she’d spoken about her father and the book he read to her was one of the best days he’d had inside Kill. He’d gotten a glimpse of the Kat Lane who existed outside of the prison walls, and now that he, too, was outside, he wanted very much to see more.

What might her reaction be if he asked her some more personal questions? Only questions about her likes and dislikes, not like her bra size or anything—though he’d wondered about that shit, too. They looked like they would fit in his hands perfectly. His body immediately reacted to that particular thought, which was more than a little embarrassing when he was surrounded by a bunch of guys.

His body still seemed to find it impossible to settle down when he was around her or when he thought about her. Regardless, as much as he would have loved to suggest they just get fucking down to it, he knew she wasn’t that type of girl. He was fairly certain that if he ever heard of any man treating her that way, he would have no problem with fucking. Their. Shit. Up.

His possessiveness could be a problem.

“Carter?”

He came from his thoughts and looked at Cam, who was motioning toward the entrance of the body shop.

“There’s a guy here to see you, man.”

“Who?” Carter asked, putting his coffee down.

Cam shrugged. “No clue. He just said he needed to talk to you urgently.”

“Don’t they all.”

He stopped midstride when he saw who was waiting for him on the sidewalk outside the shop, in a suit that must have cost at least two thousand dollars. Carter cursed and rubbed his palm down his face in aggravation.

“Austin Ford.”

Austin nodded. “Carter.”

There was a moment of overwrought stillness while the two men observed each other. Impatient as always, Carter was the first to break it.

“What are you doing here?” he asked with an incensed shake of his head.

“You haven’t been returning any of our calls,” Austin answered, his tone calm and arrogant.

“You dipshits can’t bully me on the phone, so you decide to come down and do it in person?” he retorted.

“We’re not bullying you, Carter. These papers need signing.”

Carter pulled his smokes from his back pocket and lit one, taking a huge drag. He pointed at Austin with the cigarette still between his fingers. “Those papers were drawn up without my consent as a way of shifting me out of the picture. That, my friend, is fucking bullying: underhanded, conceited bullying.”

“Carter.” Austin rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You don’t want anything to do with the company. You’ve said that time and time again, yet when we offer you a way out, you dig in your heels and say no.”

“Bullshit,” Carter snapped. “You’re offering me a way out because the Fords are scared shitless that WCS shareholders will find out your company is owned by a criminal. Ironic, really, when you consider the men you’ve been making deals with. Casari ring any bells?”