A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1) (12 page)

“Do you think it has something to do with your parole?” Riley passed the cigarette back.

Carter feigned indifference, even though he was petrified that was the reason behind her sudden distance from him. Maybe she was regretting having agreed to tutor him outside of the facility. Maybe she wanted to pull out but didn’t know how to.

Carter was no stranger to being let down, but, fuck, could Peaches really be like that? He hated the feeling of powerlessness she brought to him. It wasn’t even the thought of not being granted parole—even though that would suck major ass. It was more to do with the fact that he wouldn’t have a legitimate reason to see his Peaches outside of Arthur Kill.

He blew the smoke down his nose in a huff of annoyance, knowing the circle he was going in inside his head would not change one fucking iota until he said something to her.

“Just ask her, Carter,” Riley offered, looking out toward the fields at the back of the facility.

Carter snorted. “Yeah, sure, Riley.”

Riley clicked his tongue. “Pussy.”

“Whatever,” Carter retorted, dragging the last of the smoke for all it was worth before blowing it into Riley’s smug face. “Loser.”

Riley’s thunderous laughter and his palm slamming into Carter’s back in jest ensured Carter’s determination to confront her that very afternoon.

But fuck it all to hell if Peaches wasn’t wearing the most delicious gray skirt and pastel pink silk top when she walked into the session room five hours later, making all the coherent thoughts and blood in his head run in one very specific direction. Goddammit. He exhaled and mumbled something profane as she dropped the resources and Carter’s smokes on the table between them.

“Something wrong?” she asked with a quick look in his direction.

Carter chuckled into his hands and shook his head. “Nothing at all. Carry on.” The woman would be the death of him.

Carter cupped his face in his hands and watched her almost bury herself inside the Mary Poppins bag she’d brought with her.

“Peaches,” Carter muttered around the filter of the smoke resting on his bottom lip. His name for her had stuck well, and he used it liberally. Deep down he was stoked she let him get away with it without questioning how or why.

“Mmhm?” came the mumbled reply from the dark depths.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Peaches froze before she rose slowly from the cavernous monstrosity and gave a small, embarrassed smile. “Just—um, looking for something.”

Carter grinned. “What, Jimmy Hoffa’s necktie?” He raised his eyebrows at the guard, who hid his laugh behind his right hand.

Peaches rolled her eyes at the two of them. “No, smart-ass.”

She pulled out her chair next to him as she did during every session and laid out Carter’s work. She paused before explaining the comments she’d given him and asking questions raised by his answers. They were still very much involved in
The Merchant of Venice
.

“You say here that the character of Portia is the most intelligent character in the play, but you don’t explain why,” she said, reading over Carter’s work. He watched her tuck her hair behind her ear. “Could you explain?” She sat back, putting some distance between them while averting her stare.

“Why do you do that?” Carter blurted out.

“I’m sorry?”

“That,” he repeated, pointing at the way she was sitting. “Why did you move away like that?” His eyes widened when after a few seconds she hadn’t answered. “Forget it,” he murmured, pulling his work closer.

“No,” Peaches said firmly, placing her hand on the same piece of work. Carter’s eyes met hers. “What did you mean, Carter?”

He mumbled again, grabbing the pack of smokes to fidget with. Peaches waited patiently. “Are you wigging out because of my parole?” he snapped.

His question appeared to shock the hell out of her, but he didn’t give her time to respond.

“Because, frankly, I would much rather you be honest with me and tell me now. I mean, fuck, I don’t wanna be standing in front of those smug losers all hopeful and shit, for you to turn around and say that you ain’t gonna see this through because of … whatever.”

* * *

Kat blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged. How could he think that she would wig out on him? Hadn’t she proven her commitment to his case and parole with all the work she’d been doing?

Yes, she’d been behaving differently with him, but there was no way she could explain to him why. She’d rather die first.

The truth was, two weeks ago, Kat’s nightmares had stopped. She would have been eternally grateful, if they hadn’t been replaced by the most sensual dreams she’d ever had. They’d started tame enough, but over fourteen nights they’d become steamier and steamier. Usually, this wouldn’t have been a problem—she’d had racy dreams before, of course; however, the man starring in her personal porn show was none other than one Mr. Wesley Carter.

Ever since she’d started having the dreams, she’d officially been in hell.

How could she have such mind-blowing dreams about a man she hardly knew? And what the hell was she going to do about the fact that she was potentially going to continue seeing him for at least another twelve months, outside of the guarded, well-monitored, keep-your-hands-to-yourself-and-we’ll-all-get-along-fine environment of Arthur Kill?

Not that she would ever dream of putting herself or Carter in a position such as that. No way. She was still his tutor and he was her student. She was in a trusted position and she wouldn’t jeopardize what she’d worked so hard to build. The nonfraternization policy would no doubt be enforced during his parole, too.

“Why do you think I wouldn’t see this through?” she asked finally. “What gave you the impression that I didn’t want to help you get parole?”

“I don’t know. Shit, you just seem different. Like you’re worried about something or nervous. I didn’t know whether it was the thought of carrying on with our sessions that had you freaking out.”

He hid the hurt in his voice well, but his eyes betrayed him when they dropped to the table. He’d noticed her distance. Suddenly, Kat didn’t know whether to feel flattered or terrified that he had noticed at all. She swallowed down her panic and moved closer to him.

She fought down the overwhelming urge to touch his face. “I’m here for the long haul. I really want to help you get parole, and I want to keep our sessions going.”

Carter let his eyes meet hers.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you doubt that. I won’t let you down. You can count on that one hundred percent.”

Kat was surprised at the vehemence of her own words but knew in her heart she meant them. Pound of flesh or not, she was going to help Carter, and no one could change that.

It took a moment for Carter to speak. “Okay.”

They sat for a few moments in silence, neither one of them finding it uncomfortable.

“Are you very nervous about your parole application?” Kat asked eventually after watching Carter put his cigarette out. He shook his head. “Shylock,” she murmured. “As brave as ever.”

“So says Portia,” Carter countered with a smile.

“The most intelligent character in
The Merchant of Venice
,” Kat said with a flirty undertone.

“Well, she did save Shylock,” Carter responded.

The metaphor was not lost on Kat. She knew Carter saw himself as less because of his life choices, much like people saw Shylock as less because of his religion. The comparison was tenuous, but to Carter, Kat knew, it was very real.

“That she did.” Kat’s eyes landed on his work. “But if we’re talking literary characters, I’m not sure that Portia is the right one for me to be compared to.”

“Oh, no?” Carter asked. “Who were you thinking? The Queen of Hearts from
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
? Hecate from
Macbeth
?” He snapped his fingers with inspiration. “The White Witch in
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
?”

Playing off his jibes, Kat grabbed her pen, and began to make a shopping list. “No,” she deadpanned. “But thanks for reminding me what I need from the store: axe, cauldron, Turkish Delight.”

“Okay,” he said with a chuckle. “Seriously, who would you choose?”

“That’s easy,” she replied. “I would want to be Walter from
Walter the Lazy Mouse
.”

Carter looked puzzled. “Not a velveteen rabbit or a spider named Charlotte?”

Kat shook her head. “No. The girls at school used to read those. But for me, it was always Walter.” She turned toward him. “Do you know the story?”

“Tell me.”

“Walter was a very lazy mouse,” Kat began. “He’s so lazy he won’t get up for school or go out with his family or play with his friends, and soon they all forget about him. His family moves away one day while Walter is asleep.”

Carter slumped in his chair, listening intently.

“He decides to look for his family,” Kat continued. “He meets many creatures on his travels, including frogs that can’t read or write. Walter tries to teach them, but, because he missed so much school through sleep, he can’t remember how to.”

For a quick, heartbreaking moment, she heard her father’s voice as he read the story to her.

“Peaches,” Carter whispered.

Sadness weighed heavily on Kat’s shoulders. “My dad used to read it to me when I was a little girl. He used to do all the voices.”

Carter folded his arms on the table. “He sounds—he sounds like a good guy.”

A small smile tugged at Kat’s mouth. “He was. He would say no matter what the obstacles, if I was determined like Walter, I could do anything I put my mind to.”

“And did you?” Carter asked, taking her by surprise.

“Did I what?”

“Did you do whatever it was you put your mind to no matter what the obstacles?”

Kat smiled, embarrassed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are.”

* * *

Carter noticed her eyes go to the wall behind him and cursed quietly.

Time’s up.

Carter watched, trying to feign indifference but silently mad as hell that she had to go, as she started to pack up her belongings.

“I might have a look for that book in the prison library, you know,” he said casually. “Do you think Arthur Kill library would stock children’s literature or is that just wrong on too many levels?”

Peaches failed to hide a smile.

“What the fuck am I talking about? Riley probably has it hidden under his pillow to read on cold, lonely nights. I’ll ask him.”

She giggled and Carter smiled at the sound.

“In all seriousness,” she said, pulling her bag onto her shoulder, “if you do find a copy, would you let me know? I lost mine.” The heartbreak on her face was clear.

“I will,” Carter answered sincerely.

“Hey, Carter,” she called as the guard unlocked the door for her. “Thanks for today.”

He smiled as the door closed slowly behind her. “Anytime, Peaches,” he whispered to the empty room. “Anytime.”

Those who didn’t know Eva Lane personally considered her aloof and arrogant. But no one, not even those who disliked her, could deny her strength.

When seven thugs, high on whatever they’d taken that fateful night, had ruthlessly murdered her husband, Senator Daniel Lane, she’d remained stoic and calm in public. She received condolences from voters, strangers, and many of her husband’s colleagues with a smile and a nod of thanks. Everyone had marveled at her composure.

But deep down, she’d been dying. Her heart had been ripped out, leaving a gaping hole that couldn’t be filled with words of sympathy or touches from loved ones.

Daniel had been everything to her and when she was told he’d died, been beaten so violently that his brain had bled, causing a massive stroke, she’d considered taking her own life to be with him. An easy, selfish, and desperate way out. How could she possibly go on living when the only man she’d ever loved was gone?

For weeks after his death, Eva had taken to the bed they’d shared and cried. She’d screamed, shouted, thrown things, hit things, hit herself, but the pain remained. The hole was wide and cavernous, and nothing could staunch the grief every time her eyes opened and she realized her Danny was still dead.

Nothing except her daughter.

Her little Katherine, who’d witnessed the murder of her precious father, who was silent, pale, and desperate for her mother to give her words that would pull her from the grief consuming her so entirely. Eva knew she’d been selfish in her own sorrow, that her little girl needed her, and Eva needed Katherine, too. Yet Eva could barely look at her without seeing her husband. Every movement, mannerism, and look her daughter gave was so much like her husband that, for a long time, Eva could spend only small amounts of time in her company.

It broke Eva’s shattered heart further and contributed to Katherine’s belief that her mommy blamed her for the death of her hero-worshipped father. She should have stopped those bad men, she’d whimpered. If that stranger hadn’t been there, she might have been able to. The anguished “what-if’s” of a nine-year-old girl who wanted nothing more than to see her father walk through the door again.

During therapy, Eva slowly began to realize what she was doing to her child. She was devastated when she heard Katherine’s thoughts about Eva’s blame. She also understood how lucky she was that she still had her daughter at all—how close she’d been to losing her, too.

And she would be forever grateful for whatever divine intervention occurred for keeping her baby safe. She had a beautiful, living, breathing connection to her cherished husband—and she would always treasure and protect her daughter, for the rest of her life.

Unfortunately, as well as looking just like her father, Katherine had inherited his determination. She was stubborn to a fault and, once decided on something, she was never swayed. Eva knew that her attempts at keeping her daughter safe were bordering on smothering, but dammit, didn’t Katherine see the risk she was taking?

It pained Eva to see her daughter dismiss her worries so easily. She’d tried relentlessly to steer her daughter away from the path she had chosen, to no avail. She sighed heavily now.