A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(97)

[page]Kat whispered, “Thank you,” and, with her bag in hand, she ran outside to the Jaguar XJ, unlocking it as she approached.

Her bag was thrown in, the keys were in the ignition, and her foot was to the floor as she sped down the driveway away from her friends and family. Kat tried her hardest to ignore the intense relief that consumed her as the miles mounted between them, and wished like hell for guilt to take its place.

It never did.

*

Carter had had a shitty week. And, because he was a bastard, he’d made everyone else’s week shitty, too.

He knew he’d been short-tempered with the guys at work, and his counseling sessions and home visits had been filled with uncooperative grunts and shrugs simply because he couldn’t be bothered to deal with it all. The only good thing about the week had been Carter’s session with Ross. He’d kicked seven shades of crap out of every piece of equipment that could handle it and, although it had made him feel better, he was still edgy as f*ck.

He was starting to drive himself crazy. Hence why he’d decided to stay in on a Saturday night while Max and the boys went out. He really wasn’t in the mood for any of Max’s stupid shit. The *’s face was still a complete mess, but he was determined to go out, get wasted, and f*ck anything with a pulse instead of dealing with his grief. Again.

Carter lit another smoke, and began strumming the opening chords of Kings of Leon’s “Fans” in an effort to relax. He peeked once again at his cell phone.

Nope. Still no f*cking word.

The reason his panties were in such a goddamn awful bunch was simple. Peaches. The woman was gonna give him a heart attack, way before any pack of Marlboros or bottle of alcohol would. Dealing with her being away from him for a week was one thing. Having her ignore him, after they’d texted three days before, was another.

For the life of him, he couldn’t figure the shit out.

The last he’d heard from her was a text asking if he could talk. He liked that she’d texted him, and he liked that she wanted to talk to him even more. Truthfully, he’d never had a relationship with a woman where conversations on the phone had happened. But he’d been more than enthusiastic to speak to Peaches.

He shoved the quiet cell phone across the leather. He wasn’t going to call her again. It’d gone to voice mail the other four times he’d tried, and his seven texts had gone unanswered.

He rubbed the heel of his hand across his sternum to soothe the heartburn that’d been plaguing him for days, and continued to strum, humming along.

The knock at the door of his apartment was as unexpected as it was inconvenient. If Max thought he could come and drag Carter’s miserable ass out into the city, he was in for a big surprise.

“Fuck off,” he mumbled, and flicked his smoke into the full ashtray. But the knocking came again, and this time, it was relentless. Slamming his guitar down onto the chair, Carter stormed barefoot across the loft to the door. Pulling back the dead bolt while still muttering curses, he swung the door open, ready to punch whichever motherf*cker was disturbing his pity party for one.

Catching the door before it hit the wall, the ferocious expression on his face dropped like a rock in water.

“P-Peaches?”

She was standing there, looking a little worse for wear, in skinny black jeans and a red hooded top. Bizarrely, she was wearing flip-flops. Her hair was pulled up into a messy ponytail and her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in mascara as though she’d been crying for days, or—from the way she was swaying—drinking.

“What’re you doing here?”