An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(15)
The two men heard the car before they saw it. The unmistakable roar of a Maserati GranTurismo MC Stradale echoed through the rural surroundings.
“Jesus,” Dom muttered as they watched the matte black vehicle pull up to the front of the facility. “Nice wheels.”
Max snorted. He just knew Carter would have loved every minute of driving that damned thing from New York. Boy had always had good taste in automobiles and now that Carter was CEO of the business that was his birthright, he certainly had the money to indulge.
Max and Carter had grown up from small boys watching and working in Max’s father’s body shop, where they’d learned what the term “muscle car” truly meant, pulling engines apart, and building them back up. They passed their tests and crashed their first cars together, bought motorcycles together, and attended every gearhead event in the continental United States.
They were great times, and as Max watched Carter unfold himself out of the car, he realized how much he’d missed his best friend. They’d been through so much together. So many times, when any normal friendship would have been ripped apart at the seams, the two of them fought yet stayed obstinately loyal to each other. Carter’s going to prison in Max’s place more than three years ago—so Max could be with Lizzie while she was pregnant instead of doing time for something he didn’t do—was just one thing on a long list of shit that Max owed his friend for dearly, and Max was determined, once he was back in the real world, to spend every day paying Carter back.
Despite his initial shock and the dregs of cheap jealousy that still sloshed through him, Max couldn’t have been more proud of his best friend. He was happy, healthy, and in love, looking for all the world like the weight of doubt and abandonment he’d always carried around with him since they were kids had at last been shucked off. Max realized with a jolt that Carter had finally found his place in the world, and the slow spread of relief that followed was more than a little welcome.
Carter smiled as Max approached, but it was uncertain, careful, and Max hated it. He knew today was going to be awkward as shit, both Tate and Elliot had warned him, but Max had hoped it wouldn’t be.
“Sorry I’m a little late,” Carter began, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “I had to check in with the front desk.”
Max shook his head. “It’s okay.” He stopped two feet from Carter, his hands pushed deep into his pockets, and tilted his chin toward the Maserati. “Compensating for something?”
Carter barked a laugh and lifted his eyebrows, glancing back at the car. “She needed her legs stretching, what can I say?”
“She’s beautiful. V-eight?”
“Zero to sixty in four-point-five seconds.” Carter nodded with a wry smile. “It would’ve been rude not to, right?”
Both men chuckled nervously. Max rocked uncomfortably on his heels before reaching out a hand. “It’s good to see you, man. Thanks for coming.”
Carter pushed his keys into his back pocket and took Max’s hand, shaking it first then squeezing before he let go. “Of course. I wouldn’t have missed it. Thank you for inviting me. You look . . . well. Better. Much better.”
Max couldn’t deny that he had the overwhelming urge to hug his friend, because damn it was good to see him, but instead he gestured with his hand toward the path he knew wound its way around the entire facility. “I want to show you around before you meet everyone. Wanna take a walk?”
Carter cleared his throat. “Sure.”
Side by side, they walked through the melting snow, as Max pointed through the large windows telling Carter about the art room and his paintings, his group sessions and his meetings with Elliot. It was strange explaining it all, but Max didn’t feel the embarrassment that had curled in his stomach the first time he and Carter had spoken on the phone. Seeing him while they spoke was certainly easier.
“Riley told me about Tate working here,” Carter said as he peered into the art room where Tate was teaching a class. “Small world, huh? I think I spoke to him on the phone briefly once, but I never met him. Is he as nuts as Riley?”
Max grinned. “Crazy T-shirts aside? He’s like Riley, but a little more sane. See the cane? He was injured as a medic on tour with the Marines.”
“Yeah, I remember that. It was the only time Riley ever left New York back then.”
“Tate hit the pills and painkillers hard when he was honorably discharged from the corps. It was all to do with his injury. Dude picked himself up, went to rehab, went back to school to train as a counselor, and here he is, four years clean and helping other addicts.”
Carter smiled. “Sounds like a great guy.”
“He is,” Max agreed. “He’s offered to be my sponsor when I . . . when I come home.” Unease swirled tightly in Max’s stomach.
Carter’s face, however, lit up. “When do you think that’ll be?”
Max shrugged. “I just got my two-month medallion, so—”
“That’s amazing, brother,” Carter uttered, pride and relief prevalent in his voice.
Max held out the two chips in his palm. He carried them everywhere as addicts were encouraged to do, just in case the craving surpassed discomfort; a reminder, a tangible way of counting off the days of his servitude to addiction.
Carter gazed at them, not touching, and smiled. “I knew you could do it.”