A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(114)

Kat’s palms found the sides of her forehead. “I … I can’t be—be … no—anywhere near you. I have to …”

She turned from him, grabbed her bag, and set off at a dead run.

Carter exploded after her, calling for her to stop, yelling at her to think about what she was doing in the dark, in the middle of Central Park, but she ignored him. He could have caught her easily. He could have wrestled her to the floor just as he’d done sixteen years before, but what would have been the f*cking point?

She hated him and didn’t want to be near him.

She’d called him a liar.

Was he?

Carter stopped dead at that thought, and watched helplessly as she ran from him. Breathless, his whole body felt skinned. He clutched his chest in a futile attempt to stop the searing hurt that twisted there. Unable to breathe, he bent his head back and roared loudly into the sky, releasing the frustration and rage heaving through his bones. He kicked the base of a nearby tree several times, bellowing out words and sounds he’d never heard himself use before while praying to all hell that the hurt would stop.

Exhausted, Carter’s hands dropped to his knees while his eyes followed the path she’d taken.

When he could no longer see her and his voice was hoarse, he staggered back to his jacket and bike helmets and stumbled back to Kala.





22


Carter wasn’t sure how long he’d ridden his bike around the city. The only things he knew were that he was soaked to the bone, and there was a quarter-empty bottle of Jack in his hand.

He rolled Kala back into the garage and parked, kicking her stand down to take the weight. Carter flopped against her, ghosting his hand across the leather seat where Kat had sat behind him, around him, with him. His hand shook inexplicably, so he took a large gulp of Jack, hissing at the burn. The only comfort Carter took from the whiskey’s heat was it reminded him that he was still capable of feeling something.

He snorted in derision and took another hit.

Dirty f*cking liar. Dirty f*cking liar.

With lead feet and a body that was disturbingly empty, Carter made his way back up the stairs, climbing the six floors to his apartment. He didn’t care how long it took him or that it would have been easier to take the elevator. All he cared about was getting into bed with his Jack and praying he didn’t wake up for days. He shoved the stair door open with his shoulder, stumbling a little, and stopped dead.

Sitting in a tight ball at his apartment door—soaking wet and shivering—was Kat.

Carter slumped against the wall. A relief that almost crippled him washed down his back like warm water. Despite mascara covering half her face and her hair dripping all over, she’d never been more f*cking beautiful.

They stared at each other for an eternity, silent words passing between them: words too big for a hallway as small as the one they found themselves in. Eventually, and with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, Carter pushed from the wall and began approaching her—slow and cautious—as though moving toward a wild animal.

[page]He was mere inches from her when she struggled to her feet and sagged, wet and heavy, against his door. She looked as tired as he felt.

With his eyes fixed on hers, and no words spoken, Carter pulled his keys from his pocket and leaned around her to unlock the door. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard her take a deep breath of him. He didn’t care, though. He wanted her to. He wanted any part she was still willing to give him.

If he was a dirty f*cking liar, then he would be her dirty f*cking liar.

Kat stepped hesitantly into the apartment. Carter set the bottle of Jack on the counter next to the coffee mugs that remained from that morning, when shit was still unicorns and f*cking rainbows, and turned back to her, shaking out of his jacket. She was drenched and shaking with cold.