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

by Sophie Jackson

  “Knock it off, Holly.” A deep male voice came from the doorway. “She already looks pretty.”

  The man was dressed in a police uniform: a dark shirt, tie, and khaki pants. He was tall and lean with wavy auburn hair and a well-groomed goatee that lifted when he smiled at her. He watched her for a beat before stepping forward with his hand out. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Caleb Yates. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Grace swallowed, nervous butterflies swarming her stomach. Ridiculous, she chastised herself. He’s a police officer. He’s no threat. And his blue eyes were safe and honest. She breathed deeply and smiled back, shaking his large hand. “I’m New-In-Town Grace Brooks.”

  He laughed politely at her lame joke. “I’ve heard. You’ve caused quite a stir around here. We don’t get many new faces that stay longer than a vacation here in Preston County. You’ve bought the Baileys’ old place, right?”

  He knew a lot, which immediately put Grace on edge. She fisted her hands together while her eyes darted past him toward the exit. The deputy badge on the left side of his chest knocked her around the head with a dose of calm-the-hell-down. Of course he knew about the house; he probably knew everyone’s business. That was his job.

  “I have, yes,” she confirmed, not wanting to say anything more, uncomfortable under the two pairs of scrutinizing eyes.

  Caleb rocked on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s great. It’s about time someone tackled that behemoth of a building.”

  Grace laughed shortly. “Well, I’m your girl.” The sparkle in the deputy’s almond-shaped blues was flattering but had Grace’s feet moving around him. “Anyway, I’d better get back. Thanks . . . Holly. I’ll be here on Monday.”

  She waved a shaking hand over her shoulder, ignoring whatever Holly’s reply was, and all but stumbled out of the door onto the snow-covered street. Hurrying down the sidewalk as best as she could with the cold taunting the old injuries to her right hip and rib cage, she stopped inside the mouth of a small alleyway and pressed her back against the damp brick.

  Leaning her head back, Grace breathed as slowly and as deeply as she could, fighting the fear back with the cold, fresh West Virginia air and the fact that her past was thousands of miles away on the other side of the country, on parole with a court-issued restraining order and her old apartment. Her throat narrowed as his face flickered behind her eyelids.

  Maybe Kai was right. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. Maybe it was too soon for her to be out alone, out in a strange place. Maybe she wasn’t strong enough to be around unfamiliar people yet. Maybe she should pack up, forget the old house, and head back to DC.

  “No,” she croaked toward the freezing sky. She wasn’t giving up that easy. These moments were bound to happen; she just had to fight through them. Her breathing slowed. She opened her eyes, hating the tears that filled them. “Great,” she whispered, pulling her hat back on. Now the deputy and her new boss would think she was a raving loony after she’d behaved so rudely.

  Well, as her momma used to say, what’s done is done. Grace knew she’d simply have to show them that she wasn’t a complete weirdo when she went to work on Monday. Her pulse jumped, this time in excitement. A job. It might be for only a few hours a week but she had an actual job. Kai would shit bricks. She laughed to herself, thinking of the conversation they would no doubt have that evening when she called to tell him, and slowly left the safety of her alleyway, heading back to the boardinghouse.

  Yes, the dark clouds of her past continued to follow her daily, but with the house, and now a job, at least they now had beautiful silver linings.

  Between the painting, the gym visits—which were having an awesome effect on his arms, chest, and waistline—group sessions, and chats with Elliot, time started to speed up for Max. Days passed in a blur of talking, running, punching, and acrylic paint until, one brisk January afternoon, he received his second medallion. Sixty-four days of clean living and, Max had to admit, he was feeling pretty good. He’d even quit smoking.

  He’d built up a solid friendship with Tate and always looked forward to their sessions, while—although he still wasn’t singing like a canary—his therapy with Elliot was also becoming less of a hindrance. He’d spoken more about Lizzie, more about his addiction and the roots of it, not that it would have taken a genius to figure out, and had even allowed himself to consider the future, his time away from rehab.

  His stay was never given a time limit, though Elliot had suggested he look to staying another month. He was pleased with Max’s progress but wanted Max to be happy and ready to deal with the real world again. The after-care program was second to none and Max would obviously have access to sponsors and therapists for as long as he needed, but Max had agreed.

  He wasn’t ready quite yet.

  In truth, the thought of going home—as awesome as it would be—filled Max with an odd sense of trepidation. He was busy every day in the facility, surrounded by people he had grown to recognize and, in many cases, like. Despite the latter being true, Max worried about how he would fill his time when he was home, how he’d move from one day to the next without the rigorous timetable he lived by. Busyness was his new friend. Without it, back home, he’d have a lot of time on his hands; time to ruminate, agonize, wonder where he could get a line.

  He was concerned that his friends wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t recognize how hard Max battled to make it through every day without stuffing that poison up his nose. He knew they’d be supportive, of course; they always had been; but would that be enough? Elliot explained that his fears were understandable and very normal, but still Max fretted.

  The reflection that looked back at him in the main hall window showed a much healthier face, though still weathered with lines of struggle. His brown hair had grown into disarray and he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. His dark eyes watched the driveway like a hawk.

  “You got a visitor today?”

  Max startled at the voice at his side. He turned to see Dom, from his group session, peering out of the window, too. Max nodded. “My best friend.” He turned back to the window. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he left me here.” He swallowed. No, that wasn’t fair. “Actually, he helped me get in here. Paid for everything.”

  “Awesome,” Dom commented, always a man of few words. Max noticed how much better the man looked, too, in comparison to when they’d first been introduced, and wasn’t that a strange thought? Two men, two addictions, but both with the same goal: get clean or get dead.

  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.”

  “Well,” Max said slowly, closing his fist around them, “I’m not there yet. Elliot thinks I should stay another month or so.”

  Carter’s brow furrowed. “And how do you feel about that?”

  Max put the medallions away and began walking, not able to stomach what would no doubt be a look of disappointment on Carter’s face. “I . . . think I need it,” he confessed. “I think I still have a lot I need to work out about . . . Lizzie, Christopher—all of the shit that’s happened. I’m still not— I can’t just forget. I’m trying, Carter, but it’s not an overnight thing and I have to live with this shit over me every day when I leave here and—”

  Carter’s hand on Max’s arm made him stop and turn. “Hey, man, it’s okay,” he murmured, his eyes sad but imploring. “Seriously, buddy, take all the time you need. We’ll all be waiting for you when you come home. I don’t care how long it takes. We all just want you to get better. I want you to get better.”

  Max exhaled and rubbed a hand down his face. He kicked at a lump of stubborn, unmelted snow and allowed Carter’s words of reassurance to calm the disquiet in his chest. “Thanks.”

  They continued walking around the center. Conversation, although not stilted, felt different. Carter spoke about Kat and, although there was caution in his words, about his proposal to her. Max smiled as best as he could while Carter waxed lyrical about his Peaches, and Carter responded in kind when Max spoke fleetingly about his sessions with Elliot.

  The two of them were a fucking nightmare for sure, both of them uncertain because of the weirdness Max’s stay in rehab had brought to their friendship. Max could only hope that, when he finally did go home, things would be easier. He could only imagine how hard it was for his best friend. Carter had seen Max at his very worst, when he hit rock bottom, half-naked, unconscious, and unresponsive on the bathroom floor. Max had known Carter nearly his whole life and knew he’d have torn himself to shreds over it all, blamed himself, which was absurd. Max had no one to blame but himself.

  And maybe Lizzie.

  But he was working on that blame every day.

  As part of Max’s twelve steps, he’d been urged to acknowledge what his addiction had done to the people he cared for, the people who had tried for so long to help him. Christ, Carter had tried so hard, pushed Max to get better, even when Kat had asked him to step away and let Max do what he wanted; even when—in a moment of insanity—Max had pointed a loaded gun at Carter’s head, he’d not lost hope, imploring Max to get the help he so desperately needed—

  “Thanks, Carter,” Max said before he could even recognize the need to say the words of gratitude.

  Seated in the visitors’ room with the winter sun streaming through the tall windows, the words reverberated around him. Carter, who’d been chatting amiably with Elliot, turned. He opened his mouth to speak, but Max continued, muttering toward the cup of coffee in his hands. “And I’m sorry for everything I put you through, you and Kat—I know you two argued a lot about me, and for that I apologize. I’m sorry for what my addiction put you through and I thank you for being there and not giving up on me. It would have been so easy, but you didn’t.”

  He lifted his head slowly, noticing first the wide smile on Elliot’s face. Bastard looked like a proud father seeing his son take his first steps. Almost the literal truth, the words pushed Max stumbling into new territory.

  The expression on Carter’s face was surprised yet warm, while his eyes suddenly looked a little glassy. He dipped his chin and cleared his throat. “No problem. I’ve got your back.”

  Yeah, he always had, and words could never convey how much Max appreciated it.

  After a couple of hours during which Carter finally met Tate, fussed over Max’s paintings, and saw the rest of the place, Max walked Carter back to his car, feeling lighter, less anxious.

  Carter pressed the key fob, making the blinkers of the Maserati flash. “You know,” he started, with a deep breath, “when you decide you’re ready to come home, you’re more than welcome to stay with Kat and me.” His words were quick, almost falling over one another. “You could stay with us at the beach hou
se in the Hamptons, away from the city. You could relax, take it slowly. Riley has the body shop under control. The place is back in the black and busy, so you don’t need to rush back there until you’re ready.” He lifted his shoulders. “Staying with us might be better than going back to your empty apartment. At least you wouldn’t be alone all the time.”

  Max smiled gently, curious as to whether Kat had had any say in Carter’s offer, or if she even knew of it. “I appreciate that. It sounds good.”

  Carter smiled. “Well, the offer’s there, bud. You let me know.”

  Max nodded and stepped back as Carter opened his car door and got in. The V-8 engine thundered to life, making the two men sigh with appreciation and lust.

  “I’ll be driving this baby when I get back,” Max taunted as Carter shut the car door and rolled down the window.

  “In your wettest and wildest, my friend,” Carter retorted, pressing his foot to the gas, making the car purr. Max’s laugh was halted by Carter’s next words: “I know you can do this, Max.” His face was honest and hopeful. “I know it’s been strange today and I’m sorry. You have a long way to go, shit to get through about Lizzie and . . . but I know you’ll do it. I fucking know it.”

  Max gripped Carter’s shoulder through the car window and squeezed. “Thank you, brother.”

  The apartment was dark when Max staggered through the front door, cursing as his shin smacked into the fucking coffee table that Lizzie had been more than insistent on buying when they first moved in. It was the feature of the room, apparently. Now it just created bruises.

  He mumbled to himself about being quiet, chuckling as the buzz of his last few lines lit his veins, making his skin warm and his brain pulse. It had been a crazy night filled with strobe lights, powder, and dancing. The scent of sweat permeated his shirt while the hair on the nape of his neck clung to his skin in soaked clumps. The side of his face throbbed from his chin to his eye socket where some asshole had punched him at the bar. Max had made a jibe about the dude’s jacket, and then, when the guy didn’t retaliate, Max had commented on the prick’s girlfriend. And then—because it was a day ending in y, and Max wanted a fight and a rush of adrenaline to combat the emptiness that spread through his body like the cancer that killed his father—he’d brought up the guy’s mother, whom Max didn’t know but didn’t hesitate to call a complete whore.