A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(30)

“Peaches,” he whispered, taking in every inch of her face: the red hair that had engulfed him when he threw her to the ground and she’d fought against him to get back to her father, and the eyes that had cried heartbroken, terrified tears.

“What?” she asked quietly. “What did you say, Carter?”

And, just like that, the moment was gone.

As if he’d woken from a dream, Carter sat up straight, glaring at the guard before he slumped back in his seat.

“But, you know,” he mumbled, grabbing the cigarette Jack had given him out of his pocket, his barrier snapping right back up. “What the hell do I know, right? You’re the genius teacher.”

A small voice in the back of his head screamed and shouted at him for being such a dick as her face changed from calm to furious. But it was okay, he told himself. He could cope with her anger. It was hot. Her anger turned him on. It was all the other shit that scared him to death.

“Yeah,” she snapped in response. “I am, and I want you to do these activities.” She slammed another piece of paper in front of him covered in questions and tasks. “I’m sure with all your worldly knowledge you won’t have a problem, right?”

She flashed him a look that dared him to say something back, to refuse. He didn’t.

Instead he picked up the pen she’d dropped on the table between them and began doing what she’d asked because, as she sat staring at him in all her rage and loveliness, Carter knew he’d have done anything she’d asked of him.

Anything at all.





8


Kat set the collected notebooks and pens in neat little piles on her desk, glancing at her students as they were escorted out of the room back to their cells.

“Good work today,” Kat praised Riley as he approached with a timid smile. “Who knew Shakespeare would increase your enthusiasm for the written word?”

She was bursting with pride at the effort Riley had put into his writing. He was trying so hard and, although his dyslexia frustrated him, it was obvious that he was very smart.

Riley smirked, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah.” He shrugged as his index finger touched Kat’s copy of The Merchant of Venice. “I don’t care for that poetry bullshit, but I kinda like this Bill dude.”

Kat laughed and leaned against her desk, crossing her arms over her chest. “What can I do for you, Riley?”

He immediately seemed nervous and cracked his knuckles loudly. “You know it’s my parole board meeting next week, right?”

Kat nodded.

“Moore!” the guard behind them shouted. “Time’s up!”

“Excuse me!” Kat barked, standing up straight. “Mr. Moore wishes to discuss something important with me about his education, and doesn’t need you”—she thrust an accusatory finger his way—“yelling at him while he does so.”

The guard at once looked lost for words. Kat turned back to her student. “Sorry, Riley, carry on.”

He clapped his hands together. “Um … yeah, so, it’s my parole board meeting next week, and I was wondering … ” He tapped his fists against one another. “I mean, I know you’re helping Carter out.” He shifted from foot to foot.

“What do you want me to do, Riley?” Kat asked gently, placing a palm over his knuckles in an effort to calm him. “You can ask me anything, and if I can help, I will.”

Riley’s shoulders appeared to slump in relief. “Jack said you’d say that, ’cause you’re cool and shit.”