An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(19)
Carter crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, Kat wanted it to be perfect for when you got here. She went a little crazy in Home Depot. I couldn’t reel her in.” He eyed the fluffy white towels and bathrobe suspiciously. “Sorry.”
Max tried to hide his surprise with a chuckle. “Will she be joining us for dinner?”
Carter shook his head. “Nah, brother. It’s just you and I tonight. She’s staying in the city. It’s easier for her with work. However, I, being the boss, get the day off tomorrow.”
Max snorted and fell back on the bed. “Fucking slacker.”
“Blow me,” Carter retorted, walking out of the room. “I’ll go and order dinner before I set up COD on the Xbox,” he called from the top of the stairs.
Max smirked toward the ceiling.
Yeah, shit between them was going to be just fine.
With bellies full of the best pizza ever and after thoroughly whipping Carter’s ass on the Xbox, Max followed him down to the house’s converted basement. A hybrid man cave and gym, Carter called it, separated by a wall through the middle of the space. Max marveled at the gym equipment Carter had acquired on one side and the full-size pool table, jukebox, sofas, and bar on the other.
“You wanna break?” Carter asked as he set up the table, gesturing with his hand toward the cues lined up against the wall.
For two hours, Max and Carter caught up. Without the pressure of the rehab center around them and without anyone else around to interrupt, their conversation flowed just as easily as the Diet Coke and Oreos, which Carter pulled from a small secret cupboard under the bar.
“You can’t tell Kat about this stash,” Carter said with mock seriousness.
“I’ll take it to the grave,” Max promised, stuffing another cookie into his mouth. “I’ll definitely need to use your gym shit.” He patted his stomach.
“Feel free to use what you want,” Carter insisted, lining up a shot and pocketing a ball in the top right. “There’s space in here and your room if you want to do some painting, too.” Max didn’t reply, too overwhelmed with gratitude to speak. Carter stood up straight from the table, worry etching his brow. “That’s if you want to, man. I don’t know. You should.”
Max nodded. “I want to. It’s just . . .” Carter stood still, silent. “The painting thing was weird. Doc wanted me to do it, bribed me, in fact. Bastard. Tate encouraged me. I knew I wanted to try it again, knew I had to express myself, as Doc put it, and when I picked up the brush it was like . . . I just purged, ya know? All the hate, anger, and all of me that’s been a f*cking mess for so long, just spewed onto the canvas. Some bits I don’t even remember doing.”
“Did it help?”
Max took a deep breath, recollecting the satisfaction of when he saw his first painting completed, the weight that lifted slowly with each brushstroke, and how it helped him open up more with Elliot and group. “Yeah,” he replied. “It helped.”
Carter smiled gently. “Then do it.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned, if it isn’t Max O’Hare!” Riley Moore’s voice boomed across the body shop, reverberating around the metal and the people working on it.
Max laughed and lost himself in the huge man-hug Riley embraced him with. Riley clapped Max’s cheek. “You’re looking good, my man. My brother Tate knows his shit, right?”
Max snorted. “Yeah, he knows his shit.”
All the other boys—Paul, Cam, and a couple of faces Max didn’t recognize—all approached him with handshakes, hugs, and well wishes. It had been a week since he’d left rehab but it was the first time he’d been back into the city and visited his business. He was relieved but not surprised that the place looked great and ridiculously busy. He noted a small blonde-haired woman at the back of the shop, sitting behind a desk working on a pile of paperwork, oblivious to the hubbub of Max’s arrival, and shook his head wryly. Carter had told him all about the young, pretty thing Riley had “welcomed” into the world of O’Hare’s.
He pushed Riley’s shoulder. “You never f*cking change.” Riley smirked. “What? I gots needs.”
“You sure everything’s good?” Max hedged, glancing around the place, a strange sensation of neutrality settling in his belly.
“Absolutely,” Riley answered, his business face emerging quickly. “We don’t have the figures for the last quarter here, although Carter might at WCS, but you’re obviously welcome to look at the books if you want—”
Max clapped a hand to Riley’s shoulder and smiled. “No need. I trust you. And I can’t thank you enough.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Carter showed you my offer, right?”
Max couldn’t have been certain, but Riley appeared almost shy, certainly grateful, his hazel eyes soft. “Yeah, man, he did. It’s fantastic. Thank you.”
Max and Carter had discussed at length making Riley a permanent business fixture at the body shop. With Carter’s company, WCS, becoming a shareholder in O’Hares, clearing all the debts when Max first entered rehab, and Riley’s business know-how in maintaining the smooth running of the place in Max’s absence, it seemed only appropriate to offer Riley a firmer stake in the place, as well as a salary. Besides having good and trusted friends at the helm of his beloved father’s business, Max also knew that, for a time, he could afford to take a step back, take his time in finding his feet again in the outside world, reducing by a considerable amount the weight of the expectations that rested on his shoulders.