A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(51)

“Hey,” Jack said behind a small chuckle. “I didn’t say a word. I thought it was a great gift: very thoughtful.”

Carter watched him cautiously. “Really?”

“Really,” Jack replied with a sharp nod. “I bet she loved it.”

Carter’s stomach twisted again. He hoped so. It was the least he could do for her; after all she’d done and had put up with from him.

“Inmate 081056,” Ward called, sauntering into the doorway of Carter’s cell. “I’m here to escort you off the premises.” He pulled at the cuffs of the white shirt he was wearing under a dark navy blazer.

“Goodie,” Carter murmured with a sardonic glare. Carter followed Ward, a guard, and Jack toward the back entrance of the facility, where he signed one more release form and received yet another copy of his parole conditions.

“How many of these does one person need?” he asked incredulously, pushing the piece of paper into the depths of his box.

“Well,” Ward retorted while he clicked the top of his pen, “we all know how forgetful you can be when it comes to rules, Carter.”

Carter picked up his box. “It was a rhetorical question, dickwad.”

Ward’s eyes shrunk in irritation. “What did—”

Jack stepped between the two men. “Come on now, Wes. Time to go.” He pushed on Carter’s shoulder, guiding him toward the exit.

Carter kept his stare on Ward before he allowed Jack to walk him out the door. The sun was hot for mid-September. Carter closed his eyes and lifted his face, breathing it in.

“That good?” Jack chuckled at his side.

“Yeah,” Carter answered. He opened his eyes slowly and began rummaging in his box. It took him a few minutes of cursing and muttering before he found his Wayfarers and placed them onto his face. “Now I’m f*cking ready,” he said with a wide smile.

Jack laughed and rubbed his chin. He looked across the very far side of the lot to see a familiar large, black-haired figure leaning arrogantly against the front passenger door of a very hot muscle vehicle, smoking a cigarette.

“Is that Max?”

“Don’t start,” Carter warned with raised eyebrows. “He’s here to pick me up because I sure as shit ain’t walking home.”

Jack scoffed. “Well, it’s a definite conflict of interest to have him come and pick you up when—”

“Look!” Carter stopped Jack’s lecture dead in its tracks. “This is my release day. I’m finally free of this place and I’m currently in a good mood. Please don’t piss on my parade, J. I’ve had my fill.” Carter’s voice was firm but pleading.

“Fine,” Jack surrendered. “Fine.”

“Okay.” Carter sighed. “So, I’ll see you next Friday?”

“Yeah,” Jack replied. “Your place at six. Don’t forget.”

Carter shook his head. “Like that’s even possible with the six pieces of paper I have to remind me.”

Jack raised his hand and patted Carter on his shoulder. “Take care.”

“Sure,” Carter replied. “I’ll see ya.” He began walking toward Max, who was grinning like an idiot; his mirrored aviators glinted in the sunlight.

“What’s up?” he drawled around the plume of smoke that slipped from his mouth.

Carter smiled, despite the disheveled appearance of his friend. His AC/DC T-shirt was creased and his jeans looked as though they’d not seen a washing machine in a hella long time. “Not much; just released from prison, ya know.”