A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(159)

“Sweetheart, relax.” Kat glanced at him and then back to the road. “Everything is going to be fine.”

Carter scoffed.

Fine? Fine? Was she insane?

Her confidence in both him and the situation was endearing as hell, but his brain had been on fast-forward since they’d left the apartment. Oh God, the fumbling, nervous verbal vomit that would no doubt happen when he met Kat’s favorite family member was enough to turn his stomach inside out. His nerves were just about shot to shi—

“I love you.”

Carter’s eyes closed briefly before they slid over to the breathtaking creature next to him. His hand dropped loudly from his mouth to his lap.

“And Nana Boo will, too.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling. “I just know it.”

How the hell did she do that? She knew exactly what to say to help calm him down, and, although the need to leap out of the car was still heavy in his stomach, her words made it all the more bearable.

He kissed her temple. “Thanks.” Even though the sentiment seemed grossly inappropriate for how she made him feel, it was all he had. Carter sat back, keeping her hand tightly on his thigh, fingers entwined, securing himself to her. With a deep breath, he stared out of the car window, watching the world whizz by. They had a long drive ahead of them: nine hours, a stop overnight in a motel, and then another six to Chicago.

He looked at the clock.

[page]Only another eight and a half hours to go.

Terrific. Plenty of time to get riled up.

His cell phone chimed from his jeans pocket. He read the display: Max calling …

“Hey, man.”

“Where the hell are you?” Max’s words were sharp, high, and slurred.

The idiot was filling his nose at nine in the damn morning. The shit was getting out of hand.

Carter sighed. “I’m headed to Chicago, Max. Where are you?” The faint sound of a female voice sounded in the background. “Who’s with you?”

Ignoring his question, Max retorted, “What the f*ck are you going there for?” His tone made Carter bristle.

“Thanksgiving,” he replied firmly. “Kat invited me. I told you about it, remember? You said you’d be chillin’ at Paul’s.”

Max laughed, though it sounded humorless. “Oh yeah. You and Kat. The happy f*cking couple.”

Here we go again. There was a crash on the line, something hitting the floor, and high-pitched giggling that could only be chemical-induced. “Max. Are you okay? What’s up?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he spat. “You clearly have better things to do, brother. You always do.”

Carter’s temper spiked. “That’s not true. Don’t be a dick, Max.”

But the line went dead. Carter stared at the cell screen, incredulous and angry. He and Max had spoken little about his and Kat’s relationship, not least of all because Max’s bitterness and anger over Lizzie clouded his ability to see how happy Carter was. The more Carter felt for Kat, the madder Max appeared to become. Carter’s joy was apparently of little importance to Max, who was too involved in his own despair. The amount of coke he was doing daily simply exacerbated the situation.

And Carter was powerless to stop it.

Every time he offered to help—be it money or support—he was met with resistance. Max’s pride was almost as difficult to penetrate as his stubbornness. Carter and Paul had discussed an intervention—the only place for Max now was rehab—but both men knew that would only end badly.

“Everything okay?” Kat’s expression was anxious.