An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(98)

Max rubbed his temples with the pads of his fingers. “I can’t— It’s not what you think. It’s not what it looks like.”

Carter smirked, seeing through Max’s lie. “Really? Because from your face I think it’s exactly what it looks like.” He glanced toward the door as though he could still see Grace through it. “Why the hell haven’t you mentioned her before?”

Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? Max lifted his shoulders toward his ears, opening his mouth to say something, but nothing came. He exhaled on a growl and yanked the door open. “I’ll tell you everything over a strong coffee.”

So he did. Sitting in his usual seat in the quiet coffee shop, Max relayed the last four months to his best friend, every moment between him and Grace, her past, the arrangement they made, July Fourth, the cellar, up to and including the night before. Carter sat quietly, occasionally sipping his espresso. He didn’t ask questions and never looked judgmental. Max could have hugged him again for it. Truthfully, it felt good to purge.

Thumping back in his seat, Max waited for Carter to hit him with a glorious piece of advice. Instead, he sighed and ran his index finger around the rim of his cup.

He seemed to mull over what he was going to say until Max couldn’t take it anymore. “Spit it out, please,” he complained.

Carter frowned. “I’m not sure you wanna hear what I think.”

Max placed his elbows on the table and dropped his chin into his hands. “No, man, I really do.” He cupped his fingers over his mouth, waiting. “I . . . I’m at a loss here.”

Carter sat forward, mirroring Max’s pose. “My first question is, why? Why start this?”

Max had asked himself the same thing, and the only answer he could come up with was why the hell not. He said as much to Carter, who appeared uncomfortable with the answer. “That’s a shitty reason.”

Max nodded in agreement, but there it was.

“I have to ask,” Carter said quietly. “Is this just about sex?” Max opened his mouth to reply, but Carter stopped him. “What I mean is, she seems like a nice girl, beautiful. I mean, she trusted you enough, right? Could it be more? Is that why you’re freaking out?”

Max paused for a moment, mulling that over. “I like her,” he admitted through his fingers. “But, no. It’s not anything more.”

Carter’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “Do you want it to be?”

Max dropped his hands back to the tabletop and shook his head. “I can’t, man. You know that.”

“Lizzie,” Carter said as though the mere thought of her offended him. “That woman . . .”

“Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

“Yeah, but you are,” Carter snapped. “I wish you’d see that.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead wearily. “You’re worth it, Max. You’re worth— You’re worth more than her, more than her coming into your life, turning it upside down, and f*ckin’ leaving you with no word, no care, to slowly kill yourself.”

Max sat back, frowning at his best friend. “Wow.”

Carter had been understandably vocal in his hatred of Lizzie before, but this was something else. “Where the hell did that come from?” Max asked.

Carter blew out a heavy breath and dragged his bottom teeth across his top lip. He glared at his coffee cup and Max watched as his friend tried to gather himself. “I hate what she did to you,” Carter snarled quietly.

“I know,” Max replied, his voice softened with Carter’s concern. “Me, too.”

“Tell me something.” Carter looked up slowly. “What would you say to her if you ever saw her again?”

Max had allowed himself a million fleeting moments to wonder about that and he was still without an answer. He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“Would you even want to see her?”

Something in Carter’s voice made the hair on Max’s neck lift. He cocked his head, trying to see in Carter’s eyes what he was hiding.

“Why?” He frowned. “It’s not like that’s a possibility now, is it?”

Carter didn’t answer. He merely stared back across the table, his blue eyes guarded.

“Carter?” Max sat forward. “What’s going on?”

After a brief moment where Carter seemed to come to some sort of decision, he licked his lips and looked out of the coffee shop window to the wet street outside. He reached into the inside pocket of his biker jacket and pulled out a creased white envelope. He stared at it for a beat, gave an aggrieved sigh, and placed it on the table before sliding it across to Max.

“This is why I’m here. It arrived two days ago.”

Max stared at the envelope with his name and address on the front of it, noting the cursive patterns of the handwriting. He’d know that f*cking penmanship anywhere. Lizzie. His heart skipped an entire beat, as the realization rushed over him like a bucket of ice water, forcing Max back in his seat with a harsh exhalation. He lifted his hands as though the mere thought of touching the envelope filled him with terror.

“I wanted to give it to you in person instead of forwarding it on to you like I do your bills.”

Max swallowed, not entirely certain whether he was going to throw up or pass out. His head swam horrifically. “Ha-have you read it?” He noticed that the flap of the envelope was ripped.