A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(60)

Honesty had always been so important to the friendship they’d built over the years: honesty and trust.

“Dude, you look like shit. Your temper’s raw. You’re handling an expensive habit. Paul told me the books for the shop aren’t good. If you kick this shit, you know I can help you with the money side of—”

Max shook his head. “No, Carter. I don’t want your money. I’ve told you before.”

“It’s not my money,” Carter bit back. “It’s Ford money.”

“Whatever,” Max continued. “I’m not taking it. After you went to Kill for me and Liz …” He trailed off, the name clogging his throat with emotion. Then he coughed a bitter, cold laugh. “What a waste of f*cking time that was.”

“Have you heard from her?” Carter hedged softly. Max rarely spoke of the woman who, by walking out on him and disappearing without even a “f*ck you,” had shattered his heart six months after Carter was sent to Kill.

Max shook his head before he dropped it back against the wall. “Nothing. Not even a f*cking text. Nothing since the day she left.”

Carter placed a hand on Max’s shoulder and squeezed, hating what Lizzie Jordan had done to his best friend. Because of her, the son of a bitch was brokenhearted and nursing a coke habit that was liable to land him in prison, or worse.

“The offer’s there, okay?” Carter said softly. “I’ve got your back, man, you know that, but I’m on parole. I gotta watch my back, too.”

His parole wasn’t the only reason to keep his nose clean, though. Contrary to popular belief, he’d pulled away from all the drug shit a year before he was sent to Kill.

“It’s all good,” Max said, his mask of indifference sliding over the pain. “It’s under control, I promise. Hey, I’m meeting a couple of guys next week for a sweet deal that’ll clear everything. You want in?”

Carter’s infuriated eye roll made Max laugh. “Asshole. Yeah, let me just call my parole officer and ask if that’s okay.” He thumped Max’s arm. “You be f*cking careful, you hear me?”

Carter’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Standing and moving away from Max, he pulled it from his overalls and smiled.

Peaches.

Try not to be late again.

“That your tutor?” Max asked with a knowing smile. “Shit, son, when you gonna hit that?”

“Shut up,” Carter grumbled.

Max laughed again, his game face back on. “What’s with you and her, huh? Is it that way?”

Carter cleared his throat. “No,” he breathed. “It’s not that way.” He licked his lips and looked at his best friend.

“Sure,” Max teased. “If you haven’t boned already you’re desperate to, man. It’s written all over you. Not that I blame you. Damn.”

Carter held back the growl of possessiveness that threatened to creep up his throat. “It’s complicated.” He paused. “She’s … she’s Peaches.”

Max’s eyes popped wide. “Peaches? The girl in the Bronx, with the dad who— No shit?”

[page]Carter raised his eyebrows. “Shit.”


The night Carter had saved her, he’d told Max everything. It was only then, with his friend at his side, adrenaline still coursing through his veins and the sound of gunfire still resonating around his head, that he’d openly wept from the fear.

Max scrambled from his place on the floor. “Does she know? I mean, have you said anything to her?”