A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(42)

“Do you think it has something to do with your parole?” Riley passed the cigarette back.

Carter feigned indifference, even though he was petrified that was the reason behind her sudden distance from him. Maybe she was regretting having agreed to tutor him outside of the facility. Maybe she wanted to pull out but didn’t know how to.

Carter was no stranger to being let down, but, f*ck, could Peaches really be like that? He hated the feeling of powerlessness she brought to him. It wasn’t even the thought of not being granted parole—even though that would suck major ass. It was more to do with the fact that he wouldn’t have a legitimate reason to see his Peaches outside of Arthur Kill.

He blew the smoke down his nose in a huff of annoyance, knowing the circle he was going in inside his head would not change one f*cking iota until he said something to her.

“Just ask her, Carter,” Riley offered, looking out toward the fields at the back of the facility.

Carter snorted. “Yeah, sure, Riley.”

Riley clicked his tongue. “*.”

“Whatever,” Carter retorted, dragging the last of the smoke for all it was worth before blowing it into Riley’s smug face. “Loser.”

Riley’s thunderous laughter and his palm slamming into Carter’s back in jest ensured Carter’s determination to confront her that very afternoon.

But f*ck it all to hell if Peaches wasn’t wearing the most delicious gray skirt and pastel pink silk top when she walked into the session room five hours later, making all the coherent thoughts and blood in his head run in one very specific direction. Goddammit. He exhaled and mumbled something profane as she dropped the resources and Carter’s smokes on the table between them.

“Something wrong?” she asked with a quick look in his direction.

Carter chuckled into his hands and shook his head. “Nothing at all. Carry on.” The woman would be the death of him.

Carter cupped his face in his hands and watched her almost bury herself inside the Mary Poppins bag she’d brought with her.

“Peaches,” Carter muttered around the filter of the smoke resting on his bottom lip. His name for her had stuck well, and he used it liberally. Deep down he was stoked she let him get away with it without questioning how or why.

“Mmhm?” came the mumbled reply from the dark depths.

“What the f*ck are you doing?”

Peaches froze before she rose slowly from the cavernous monstrosity and gave a small, embarrassed smile. “Just—um, looking for something.”

Carter grinned. “What, Jimmy Hoffa’s necktie?” He raised his eyebrows at the guard, who hid his laugh behind his right hand.

Peaches rolled her eyes at the two of them. “No, smart-ass.”

She pulled out her chair next to him as she did during every session and laid out Carter’s work. She paused before explaining the comments she’d given him and asking questions raised by his answers. They were still very much involved in The Merchant of Venice.

“You say here that the character of Portia is the most intelligent character in the play, but you don’t explain why,” she said, reading over Carter’s work. He watched her tuck her hair behind her ear. “Could you explain?” She sat back, putting some distance between them while averting her stare.

“Why do you do that?” Carter blurted out.

“I’m sorry?”


“That,” he repeated, pointing at the way she was sitting. “Why did you move away like that?” His eyes widened when after a few seconds she hadn’t answered. “Forget it,” he murmured, pulling his work closer.