A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(3)

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.





1


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 f*ck 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.