A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(126)

The pleading words came from nowhere. All Carter knew was he meant them, and he needed her to say yes.

The smile that appeared on her face could have lit up Broadway. “I’m not going anywhere.”

*

The lobby of WCS Communications was just how Carter remembered it: pretentious, repugnant, and reeking of money. Even the damn furniture looked uncomfortable, as if the shit had been stolen from a torture chamber. Carter scoffed at the irony of that particular thought. The fact that he was in the building at all was torturous in itself. Fuck’s sake, he was ready to crawl out of his skin.

With a deep breath, he walked toward the raven-haired woman at the reception desk, hating the loud sound of his booted steps on the shiny wood floor, and waited patiently for her to finish her call.

“I have a two o’clock with Austin,” he grumbled when she did, rubbing his hand across his jaw.

“Mr. Ford.”

Carter blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Mr. Ford,” she repeated. “You have a two o’clock with Mr. Ford. Not Austin.” She smiled contemptuously.

“Whatever,” he snapped. “Just do your job and tell the prick that Carter’s here, will you?” The sound of her mouth dropping open bounded around the large room. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

He turned toward the heinous cream sofa situated ten feet from the desk and slammed down onto it. He adjusted himself to try to get comfortable, but the postage-stamp-sized cushions were about as cozy as having glass up his ass. The whole place appeared constructed just to make its occupants feel uneasy, and it was working. No wonder the receptionist was so f*cking uptight.

“Wes.”

The hair on Carter’s neck stood on end and his lip lifted into an animalistic snarl at the sound of his cousin’s voice. Fucker knew Carter hated his given name, but he still insisted on using it frequently whenever they were in each other’s company.

“We’re ready for you,” Austin said, his poker face in full play.

Carter followed Austin into his office and immediately tried not to vomit at the elaborate artwork on the walls, the ostentatious desk, and the ridiculously incredible view over the rest of New York’s Financial District.

Fucker was totally compensating for something.

There were three other men standing in the room: Adam, who nodded cordially at Carter when he entered, and two others he’d never met before.

“Take a seat,” Austin said, gesturing to the high-backed leather seat situated by the humongous desk.

Carter sat down ungracefully, placing his ankle onto his knee. He blew out an impatient breath and tapped his fingertips against his thighs.

“So,” he drawled, glancing around the room. “Who are you?” He pointed to the suits standing by the window.

“This is Steve Fields, WCS’s lead attorney, and David Fall,” Austin answered. “He’s head of accounting and finance.”


“’Sup, Dave?” Carter smiled when he got no response. “I’m Carter.” He pointed to himself before whispering loudly, “Your boss.”

Austin coughed. “Well, actually, Wes—”

“Save the ‘Wes’ shit, Austin,” Carter barked, losing his patience. “Just explain to me why the hell I’m here so I can leave as soon as humanly possible. There’s only so much pretense and dick-sucking I can handle.”

Anger flared in Austin’s eyes. “Fine,” he replied. “You’re here so we can discuss the immediate dilution of your shares in WCS Communications.”