A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(50)

How ridiculous.

Austin was great. He was a nice, safe guy, and there was no way she was going to let a silly inexplicable feeling stop her from having something that could be incredible. It had been too long since her last relationship—a three-month fling with a compulsive liar and cheater—and she deserved some happiness. Resolute, she reached for her apple juice and heard a light thud come from between her feet. She looked down to see the brown paper square Fred had given her.

“What are you?” She picked up the mysterious package and began tearing the paper open.

A gasp left her when she realized what it was. She stared through tear-filled eyes at the 1937 first edition of Walter the Lazy Mouse in her hands. “How?” She ran her fingers reverently over the front cover. “Oh God.”

She opened it up and saw a brief message neatly written in black on the inside of the front cover:

Peaches,

Here’s to achieving anything you put your mind to, no matter what the obstacles.

Happy birthday.

—Carter





11


Carter had barely slept. He was pumped and excited, much like a small child on Christmas morning.

At seven on the morning of his release, he was busy packing up his books and other belongings into a small box with great enthusiasm. The sheet of paper stating he had officially been granted parole was now his most treasured possession, and, at regular intervals, he would open it up and reread it, just to make sure that shit hadn’t changed in any way.

It hadn’t.

Carter’s civilian clothes were what he’d worn when he entered the facility. He was smug as shit when he saw that his gray Ramones T-shirt was now tight across his arms and chest, thanks to Ross’s vigorous workouts. He smiled and shook his head, pulling at the sleeves in an effort to give his biceps a little more room.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered before he pulled on his dark-wash jeans and his black boots. Denim and cheap cotton had never felt so f*cking good. Next were his rings. He placed the thick silver band on the thumb of his right hand, a silver-and-black Celtic cross on his middle finger, and a sweet Harley-Davidson insignia on his left index finger.

“You nearly ready?”

Carter turned with a smile to see Jack leaning against the open door of his cell.

“Pretty much,” Carter replied, fastening his brown leather belt around the waist of his jeans. “When can I go?”

Jack glanced at his watch. “Doors open in ten. We’re waiting on Ward.”

“Fan-f*cking-tastic,” Carter muttered. He looked around his cell to see if he’d left anything behind, then picked up his box and pulled it close.

“So.” Jack pushed his hands into his pockets. “I delivered your little gift.”

Carter avoided his counselor’s gaze. “Great,” he replied casually. “There was enough cash?”

“More than enough, and I wrote exactly what you asked me to.”

Carter’s stomach somersaulted, thinking about Peaches receiving the book. He wondered if she liked it. He wondered if she thought it too much or too cheesy.

“I have to ask …” Jack continued, inspecting the toe of his right shoe.

“What?” Carter snapped.

Jack smiled knowingly before looking up. “I just wanted to know how the hell you managed to find a place that sold the book on such short notice,” he finished with an innocent shrug.

Carter’s shoulders collapsed in relief. “Peach—she, Kat, Miss Lane, had … um, well, shit, she mentioned it during one of our sessions, so I, I looked it up on the Internet in the library and put a hold on it. I was going to get it once I was out, but last week, when she mentioned it was her birthday …” He glanced up, shifting from one foot to the other, altogether uncomfortable as all f*ck. “It’s not a big deal, man. Stop looking at me like that.”