An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(22)

The two men stood in silence for a beat before Carter took a step closer. “Look, is now a good time? I have something to ask you. Something important.”

The small quiver in Carter’s voice had Max on point immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. No, shit’s good, I mean, okay, it’s just—you caught us celebrating a little.” The way Carter filtered drove Max to distraction. “Kat and I have decided to have the wedding later this year. Here. On the beach.”

Max licked his lips and leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, joy and anger battling through him, exacerbated by the crushing need to sleep for ten days straight and then call his dealer.

“And I want you to be my best man.”

Max shouldn’t have been surprised by the request. Hell, when he’d proposed to Lizzie, he’d asked Carter the exact same thing. His face had been a f*cking picture. The memory gripped Max like a vise, squeezing and taunting, and hitching his breath, throwing him headfirst into the terrors that had taunted him all night. What the hell was going on with him? His mind whirred and his blood sang out for a taste of white fire.

“Would you?” Carter hedged. “What do you think?” His nervousness was entirely uncharacteristic and should have been like a smack upside the head to Max. Instead, it riled him. He had the sudden and ridiculous urge to cry and throw up all at once.

“I, um . . .” Max pressed his fingertips into his eye sockets, desperate to ease the pressure building at the front of his head. “It’s just— I’m feeling . . . Carter, I can’t . . .”

“Max?”

Carter’s voice sounded far away and, just as Elliot’s had been in his office that day, as if Max were underwater. A strong hand gripped Max’s shoulder, while words he couldn’t decipher pummeled his ringing ears. He tried like hell to breathe, relieved that his ass had found something to sit on before he passed out at Carter’s feet.

And wouldn’t that just be freakin’ awesome?

Vaguely aware that Carter was at his side, Max put his head between his knees and asked Carter to grab one of his clonazepam. A pill and a glass of water were thrust under Max’s nose before he swallowed it down and lay back, throwing his forearm over his face, and begging for the drug to work its magic fast.

Max awoke with a start. On his elbows, halfway under the blankets of his bed, he looked down at himself, still in his running gear, the low light in the room suggesting it was late afternoon. Just as it had been when he’d had a panic attack with Elliot, the headache left over was fierce. On unsteady legs, he reached for a Tylenol and knocked it back dry.

That shit had come out of nowhere. First his terrors, then the craving, then the attack. What was he doing wrong?

He glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror as he threw water onto his face. He looked beat, worn, and so much older than his twenty-eight years. His brown eyes were sunken in their sockets, he hadn’t shaved in three days, and his dark hair was a f*cking catastrophe of epic unruly proportions. The outside, however, was not a patch on how he felt on the inside. But what the hell else could he do? He’d been taking his meds like a good Boy Scout, exercising, and doing enough to keep his brain from turning to gray mush, but still he’d lost it. Frustration and exhaustion flittered over his skin.

Grabbing his cell phone and firing off a text to Tate asking if he could call and maybe meet up, Max slowly made his way down the stairs, enticed by the delicious smell of chili. Voices floated from the kitchen, hushed and concerned. It wasn’t until he was in the doorway of the kitchen, hearing a cell phone chirp with an incoming text, that he realized Tate was sitting at Carter’s breakfast bar.

“Hey, you’re up,” Kat said with a cautious smile from her place by the oven.

Tate’s and Carter’s heads both snapped toward him. Max fidgeted under their scrutiny. “Yeah. Sorry. Shit got a bit hairy there for a moment.” He cleared his throat in embarrassment. He frowned at his sponsor. “What are you doing here?”

Tate lifted from his seat, pulling his cane from where it rested against his stool. “After our talk this morning, I thought I should come and see you. You sounded . . . off. Then Carter called me.”

“I was worried,” Carter blurted in explanation, compelling Kat to move closer to his side. “I didn’t know what to do.” She clutched Carter’s hand.

Max sighed, guilt teasing his temples. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

“Look,” Kat said to Carter, interrupting the awkward silence that filled the room. “Why don’t you and I go and pick up some bread for dinner and leave these two to talk?”

Carter’s troubled gaze stayed on Max, but he eventually nodded and made his way out of the kitchen. By the time the front door had closed and the sound of Carter’s motorcycle had slowly disappeared into the distance, Max was sitting opposite Tate, clutching a glass of milk in one hand and his head in the other.

“Hell of a day, huh?” Tate began, his voice quiet.

Max closed his eyes, listening to the silence of the house, realization cloaking him. “I can’t stay here.”

Tate smiled sadly when Max looked up. “Not quite working out how you thought.”

His statement hit the nail on the damned head. Max had tried so hard to fit back in. He’d tried to carry on, regardless of the weird feelings of dispassion and disconnection that clutched his heart, but it was no good. Seeing Carter and Kat together after the night he’d had, coupled with the cravings that still burned the back of his throat, had tipped him over the edge. He didn’t blame them. Jesus, they’d both done all they could to welcome him into their home and make him comfortable. And yet it simply wasn’t enough.