A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1) (2 page)

And, finally, to you for getting to the end of this long-ass thank-you note. Here, have an Oreo and a Coke. You damned well deserve it.

The pound of flesh which I demand of him

Is dearly bought; ’tis mine and I will have it.

—The Merchant of Venice, Act 4, Scene 1

The hurried sound of their feet on the sidewalk matched the frantic pace of her heart, while her father’s grip on her hand was almost painful. Her short nine-year-old legs struggled to match his strides, causing her to stumble, all but jogging to keep up. There was a tightness in his jaw she’d never seen before, and his eyes, usually so bright and carefree, were as dark and angry as the sky above them. Foolishly, she felt the sudden urge to burst into tears.

A sound behind them made her look back. From out of the mouth of an alley slunk five hooded men who, despite keeping their heads down, kept up with her father’s swift gait, stalking them like wild animals.

Her father may have uttered words of comfort, words to soothe the fear that crept across her neck, but they were eaten up by the sidewalk when something hard and fast came from behind them, sending her father sprawling, taking her down with him. Disoriented, with knees that burned from skidding across the concrete, she looked up and screamed as a baseball bat connected with her father’s back twice, conjuring sickeningly dull thuds from his body.

She didn’t see the direction from which the hand came that struck her hard across the face, sending her tumbling over the curb and into the street, stars dancing in her vision and her father’s furious bellow ringing in her ears. He staggered to his feet and launched himself at one of their attackers. She watched in horror as fists, feet, and bats rained down on him in retaliation.

Above the cacophony of shouted demands for his wallet, through the barricade of bodies surrounding him, her father yelled at her to run. He pleaded and begged as they battered him, but cold struck her, freezing her solid. How could he ask her to leave? She had to help him, save him! Tears ran down her face and an animalistic cry erupted from her throat.

He groaned in agony when another fist met the side of his head, and his knees hit the ground as she started toward him. She reached out to him, but her arm was unexpectedly pulled hard in the opposite direction. She whimpered in relief, expecting to see a police officer or her father’s security detail—but it was someone not much taller than she was, in a dirty black hoodie.

She screamed loudly when he began to drag her away from where her father was being beaten, fighting and screaming at him to let her go when he hissed at her from under his hood. Did he not realize that her father needed her, that he would surely die without her help? But the stranger kept going, pulling her down the street into the doorway of an abandoned building, two blocks from where the terrifying sound of gunfire filled the air.

She screamed for her father, yanked her hand hard from her rescuer’s grip, and began running back in the direction of the attack. She hadn’t made it far when she was wrestled to the ground by strong hands that pinned her down. She continued to scream underneath him, fighting with everything she had, but soon her body became heavy and exhausted, and her cries and screams became wracked sobs that stuttered into the cold ground beneath her forehead.

The weight on top of her disappeared and two hands lifted her, pulling her back into the freezing doorway. She slumped against him and mewed in pain into his dirty hoodie. She needed to get back to her daddy. She needed to see that he was okay. He
had
to be okay. An arm around her shoulder and an icy hand against her cheek was her undoing, and she wilted further against her unknown rescuer.

She may have stayed that way for hours; she may have even fallen asleep. The next thing she knew, she was being carried by a man with a beard toward an ambulance. She opened her tear-swollen eyes and saw police and paramedics surrounded by a sea of red and blue flashing lights.

Their expressions, which would haunt her for the rest of her life, told her unequivocally that her father would not be tucking her into bed that night.

Or ever again.

Wesley James Carter, Arthur Kill Correctional Facility inmate and all-around punk, smirked at the disgruntled prison guard who’d been demanding his prison number for the past ten minutes. To say that Carter’s insolent behavior and amused expression were agitating the overweight, balding man would be an understatement. Dude was nearly foaming at the mouth.

It was Friday, and five minutes after the guard had clocked out.

All the more reason for Carter to be a difficult bastard.

The guard ran an impatient hand over the back of his plump neck and his tired eyes narrowed. “Listen,” he warned in a low, dangerous voice that no doubt worked like a knife to the throats of other inmates. “It’s very simple. You give me your number. I put it on this form that I have to complete for your corrections counselor, and then I get to go home.”

Carter raised a defiant eyebrow and glared at the pudgy shit.

Undeterred, the guard sat back in his swivel chair. “You don’t give me your number and my wife gets pissed. She gets pissed and I have to explain to her that some cocky punk kept me waiting. Then she’ll get more pissed and yell that our tax dollars are what keep losers like you in three meals a day and coveralls.” He sat forward. “So, last time. Number.”

Carter glanced nonchalantly at the guard’s fist gripping the baton attached to his belt and exhaled a long, bored breath. Any other day, he’d be ready for the douche to take a shot; he’d take the beating with a smile plastered on his face. But today, he wasn’t in the mood.

“081056,” Carter answered coolly, unable to resist a small wink.

With a fierce scowl, the guard scribbled the number on the form, then wheeled his seat over to give the form to a young blonde admin assistant. The fat fuck was too lazy to get up and walk the six steps.

Carter waited while Blondie typed in the number that had been his adopted name for the past nineteen months. He knew what charges would appear on the monitor: car boosting, handling a dangerous weapon, drug possession, drunk and disorderly conduct to name just a few. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t proud of the list of crimes and misdemeanors, which could fill up two full screens. Nevertheless, it did give him a sense of self, which was something he’d been searching for aimlessly most of his twenty-seven years. He was still searching for it and, until he found that
something
the list was all he had.

Whatever.

He rubbed a palm across his buzz cut. He was sick of thinking about it.

The sound of paper ripping from an ancient printer had him back on point.

“Well, Mr. Carter.” The guard sighed. “It appears your stay with us stretches for another seventeen long months. Being caught with coke will do that.”

“It wasn’t mine,” Carter uttered flatly.

The guard gave him an insincere look of pity before grinning. “Damn shame.”

Carter didn’t respond, knowing that his parole application was mere weeks away, and snatched the form with a quick hand.

Flanked by another stern-looking guard, Carter strode past the desk and down a long, narrow corridor toward a white door, which he opened with a loud slap of his palm. The room was claustrophobic and sterile, and reeked of confessions. Despite the many hours he’d spent in the godforsaken place, it still made his pulse quicken and his palms sweat.

With a straight back and stiff shoulders, he walked toward the cheap wooden table where a large ape of a man smiled as Carter approached.

“Wes,” Jack Parker, his corrections counselor, greeted him. “It’s good to see you. Please take a seat.”

Carter pushed his hands into the pockets of his coveralls and dropped ungracefully into the chair. Jack was the only person who used his first name. Everyone else called him Carter. Jack had been insistent about it, explaining that it was a way the two of them could build a trusting relationship.

Carter had explained that was a crock of shit.

“Got a smoke?” Carter glanced dismissively at the guard standing at the door at the other end of the room.

“Sure.” Jack tossed a pack of Camels and a book of matches onto the table.

Carter’s long, pale fingers grappled with the wrapper. It’d been two days since his last cigarette. He was desperate. Two broken matches and a string of curses later, he finally inhaled the thick, lush smoke. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and, for a split second, all was right with the world.

“Better?” Jack asked with a shrewd smile.

Blowing the smoke across the table, Carter nodded.

Carter was impressed when Jack resisted the urge to wave the smoke away. They both knew doing so would only encourage Carter to do it more; he gripped on to any sign of weakness or irritation with the tenacity of a terrier.

It was a defense mechanism, apparently.

They’d discussed it in one of their first sessions. The mechanism was so well executed that Carter came across as strong, dominating, and, the majority of staff and inmates at Arthur Kill would agree, intimidating as hell.

Jack pulled a seven-inch-thick file from his briefcase and opened it, flicking through the numerous reports, court statements, and testimonials that, over the years, described Carter as being a “menace to society,” a “strong-willed character,” and an “intelligent individual who lacks the self-confidence to assert and channel it correctly.”

Again, whatever.

Carter was tired of hearing how much potential he had. Yeah, he was intelligent, and fiercely loyal to the people he cared about, but for as long as he could remember, he just couldn’t seem to find a path that fit. All his life he’d been drifting, never welcome or comfortable in a place for long, dealing with his fucked-up family and friends who couldn’t stay away from fucking drama for more than five minutes.

At least in lockup, shit was simple. Real-life problems were like urban myths told by those who visited from time to time. Not that Carter had many regular visitors.

Jack turned to the final page of the file and wrote the date at the top of the blank piece of paper, then pressed the record button on the small digital voice recorder sitting between them.

“Session sixty-four, Wesley Carter, inmate number 081056,” Jack began in a monotone. “How are you today?”

“Peachy keen,” Carter replied, stubbing out his cigarette while lighting another.

“Good.” Jack wrote a small note on the paper in front of him. “So, I attended a meeting yesterday regarding your enrollment in a couple of classes here at the facility.” Carter rolled his eyes. Jack ignored it. “I know you have strong views on the subject, but it’s important that you do things to challenge yourself while you’re in here.”

Carter dropped his head back and frowned at the ceiling. Challenge? The whole place was a damned challenge. It was a challenge to get through each day without blowing his freakin’ gasket at some of the dumb fucks in the place.

“There are a few options,” Jack continued. “English literature, philosophy, sociology. I explained to Mr. Ward and the education specialists that although you’d had problems with your previous tutors, you’ve changed from the seventeen-year-old high school dropout you used to be. Right?”

Carter cast him a skeptical glance.

Jack placed the tips of his fingers under his chin. “What would you like to study?”

“I don’t care.” Carter shrugged. “I just wish they’d leave me the fuck alone.”

“It’s all part of the conditions for the chance of early parole. You need to show progression in your rehabilitation. And if taking a couple of classes while you’re here does that, then you have to play the game.”

Carter knew that, and it infuriated him. Since the age of fifteen, he’d been passed from one lawyer, parole officer, and counselor to the next, with no thought about how or if he would ever do something more meaningful with his life. Though what meaningful meant, Carter had no fucking idea.

Nevertheless, after nineteen months at Kill, he was starting to think spending the rest of his days locked up wasn’t the attractive prospect he’d initially perceived it to be.

As a wayward, arrogant, angry teenager, he’d enjoyed having a revered reputation. Now the excitement and thrill had waned. Court, detention centers, and prison were old news, and he was getting bored with the law institution as a whole. If he didn’t change his shit, he’d be on the wrong side of thirty wondering what the fuck happened to his life.

Jack cleared his throat. “Have you had any visitors recently?”

“Paul came last week. Max is coming Monday.”

“Wes.” Jack sighed, pulling off his glasses. “You need to be careful. Max—he’s not good for you.”

Incensed, Carter slammed his palm on the table. “You think you have the right to say shit like that?”

Carter knew that Jack considered Max O’Hare a disease, infecting everyone around him with his drug issues, long criminal history, and his ability to land his friends in deep shit—Carter’s being in Kill a case in point. But Carter had owed Max big-time. Being in prison was simply squaring a debt, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“No,” Jack soothed. “That’s not what I think at all—”

“Well, good,” Carter interrupted. “Because you have no idea what Max has been through, what he’s still going through. None.” He took a long pull on his smoke, staring at Jack over the burning embers.

“I know he’s your best friend,” Jack said after a moment of tense silence.

“Yeah,” Carter agreed with a sharp nod. “He is.”

And from what he’d heard from the guys who’d visited, Max needed him now more than ever.

* * *

Even when Kat Lane was asleep, the world around her was shadowed and oppressive, riddling her dreams with fear. Her small hands gripped the sheets, twisting in desperation. Her closed eyes clenched and her jaw tightened while her head pressed into the pillows beneath it. Her spine was rigid and her feet moved in her sleep as she found herself running, panicked and terrified, down a shadowed alley.