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

by Sophie Jackson

  There was dried blood on Max’s shirtsleeve. Oh, yeah. His nose got busted, too, before his friend Paul had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him into a waiting cab just as the night was filled with police sirens and blue flashing lights.

  Max sniffed and wiped at his nostrils drunkenly. His nose hurt but as long as he could still breathe through it, he’d lose himself in as much blow as he could if it meant the pain of living would disappear. Fuck, he just wanted to be numb. He wanted to forget. He wanted to pretend that instead of the broken woman he knew he would find in his bed, he’d find the feisty, sparkling creature he’d fallen in love with. Instead of the shut door that concealed all the baby shit they’d bought that neither of them could bear to look at, he wanted to find it wide open, his son healthy and asleep in the white crib . . .

  He snorted the back of his hand, desperate for any trace of powder before he pushed the bedroom door open.

  Lizzie was exactly where he’d left her, curled up in a ball, unwashed, silent, and fractured by her grief. Max could barely look at her. He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. He wanted to take her in his arms, cleanse her of her pain, and lose himself inside her. He’d make love to her, kiss her fiercely, because kissing her was his favorite thing in the world, and make her forget; make himself forget. But she wouldn’t let him near her. She wouldn’t speak to him.

  And he missed her. He missed her so fucking much.

  Stumbling around the room, he managed to undress himself and slide into the bed next to her, desperate to take her into his arms and press himself into the warmth of her skin. Despite the mere inches between their bodies, they’d never been more apart. Max stretched out his fingers, the tips of them dancing lightly over the bare skin of Lizzie’s arm. He knew what that part of her body tasted like. He knew what every part of her body tasted like even though it had been months since they’d been together that way. Max understood. At least he tried to, but if she wouldn’t listen to his words of love, maybe he could show her what she meant to him with his body.

  Before he had the chance to consider her reaction, if he were to roll her over, kiss her, taste her mouth, and thrive off the intimacy he craved from her lips, she pulled her arm away.

  “Don’t,” she croaked. “You stink of beer and you’re high again.”

  He snapped, the buzz loosening his tongue and shortening his temper. “Yeah. Well, shit, I have to get my kicks somehow, right? At least one of us is living.”

  She sighed, her shoulders rounding away from him even more. “This isn’t living, Max. This isn’t living.”

  “What do you want from me, Liz?” he asked, dropping his hand to the mattress, away from her body. “Tell me what the fuck I can do and I’ll do it. For fuck’s sake talk to me!”

  But she didn’t. She never did. Instead she locked him out, pulled the covers around her small, fragile body, and shuffled from the bed to the living room, where she resumed her desolate silence on the couch. Max wasn’t sure which was worse: having her in bed next to him and not speaking, or her being in the other room. Either way he knew he was losing her. Shit, he’d already lost her, and he had no idea how to get her back.

  Hours later, when the dawn light filtered through a small gap in the drapes, waking Max from a broken slumber, he would wonder how he hadn’t heard her leave. For days, weeks, months, and years, he would torture himself about how he should have followed her into the living room; done more and pushed her further to open up to him, to share her grief with him.

  Even before he skidded down the hallway and saw that her keys, shoes, purse, and coat were gone, he knew she’d left. Even as he hunted through her closet searching for a clue as to where the fuck she might have gone, and relentlessly dialed her cell phone number, and the cell phone numbers of her family and friends, he knew she didn’t want to be found. And when he collapsed on the bedroom floor, calling out her name through racking sobs, he knew his heart had been broken forever.

  Max twirled the three-month medallion—ninety-seven days clean—in the palm of his hand. He fidgeted and kicked a foot against his packed bag, avoiding looking directly at either Elliot or Tate, who flanked him as they waited for Carter to arrive.

  “So, you’ve got all your paperwork, my number, your prescription, dates of your first meetings with—”

  Max smirked and cocked an eyebrow at Elliot. “Yes, Doc. I have them. Just like I had them the first three times you asked.”

  Tate snickered into the back of his hand. His T-shirt today was bright green and declared “Warning: If zombies chase us, I’m tripping you.” Max chuckled and shook his head. Truthfully, he was going to miss seeing those damned T-shirts every day. Tate was now officially Max’s sponsor and the two of them would no doubt see each other a lot, what with meetings and such, but it wouldn’t be the same. Max’s laugh had definitely been throaty when Tate had given him his own ludicrously inappropriate T-shirt, which stated “Pugs not drugs” under a hoodie-wearing dog.

  “As part of your tutelage under me,” Tate had deadpanned, “you must wear this at all times.” Max was certain having Tate as a sponsor was never going to be boring.

  Carter pulled up five minutes later in a red Shelby GT. It was gorgeous and, Max had to admit, ten times nicer than the Maserati. Carter all but leaped out of the car, wide smile of pride front and center. The four of them put Max’s bags and paintings into the trunk. Once done, Carter shook both Elliot’s and Tate’s hands and made himself scarce, silently acknowledging Max’s need for privacy.

  Max cleared his throat and blinked at his therapist. “Thanks, Doc,” he managed. “For everything.” He held out his hand, which Elliot shook with a wry smile. Despite their rocky start, Max knew that, without Elliot, he’d never have gotten through the first month, let alone the following two. He’d never admit it aloud, but he was more than thankful that it had been Elliot’s office he’d found himself in that very first day.

  “This isn’t the end,” Elliot murmured. “It’s just the beginning. You’re so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, Max. Never forget that. And there’s hope. In all things. The hardest part is done.” As hokey as he sounded, Max nodded in understanding. “Dr. Moir is exceptional. He’s a great friend of mine and he’ll absolutely help you move forward. Nevertheless, you know where I am if you want to talk.”

  And with that, Elliot made his way back into the center.

  “So you’ve got my cell, my pager, my home number, give me a call whenever, no matter what time, right?” Tate said, a rare moment of seriousness adorning his face. “We’ll have our scheduled meet-ups, or whenever you need me. Always. You’re not alone.”

  Max nodded. “I got it.”

  “And keep painting,” Tate implored. “Please. Dude, you have too much talent to stop now. Your work is exceptional. Even if you do it on your downtime. It’ll keep your mind busy and away from thinking about—”

  “I got it.”

  Tate smiled. “Good.” He sighed. “So we gonna hug this shit out, or what?”

  “Thank you,” Max said earnestly as they hugged, giving each other an obligatory backslap.

  “No problem.” Tate released him and grinned, leaning on his cane. “I’ll see you soon. Say hello to that asshole brother of mine for me, huh?”

  With heavy, chaotic sensations of fear, relief, joy, and sadness filling him from toe to crown, Max saluted Tate once more and climbed into the car. He exhaled heavily and put on his seat belt. Carter sat in silence for a beat before he turned the key in the ignition.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Max took in the surroundings of his adopted home one last time and swallowed. He couldn’t quite comprehend that he was going back out into the world, away from the safety of his routine and the relationships he’d built. His stay in Pennsylvania had been difficult, to say the least, reflecting on his past, his heartache, and his losses, but without it, Max knew, he’d have eventually become just another headstone on his family’s plot, way b
efore his time.

  As hard as it was going to be heading back, he finally understood that he couldn’t let that happen. His twelve steps urged him to recognize all he had to live for. And he had. Even if it was simply by painting, lifting weights and running, or working back in his body shop, he’d been handed a tiny speck of optimism, and he would cling to it with everything he had. He would focus on moving forward one day at a time. One big-ass foot in front of the other.

  Elliot’s words echoed around his head. It’s just the beginning.

  “Yeah,” Max answered before turning to his best friend. He stroked the medallions in his pocket. “I’m okay.”

  Carter’s beach house in the Hamptons was just as beautiful as Max remembered despite the falling rain and the wind that whipped around them, as he and Carter trudged up the deck steps to the front door. Inside, a fire flickered in the hearth, and the guest room Carter led him to was made up as though they were expecting the sultan of Brunei. Towels, flat-screen TV, bamboo blinds at the windows, huge comforter, and fluffy pillows, soft-looking rug on the floor, and, wait, a vanity set?

  Carter clapped his hands together. “Okay. So, I’m thinking fuck it, let’s have pizza for dinner.”

  Max’s stomach growled. “Awesome,” he replied, kicking off his sneakers and dropping onto the edge of the bed. He allowed his socked feet to wander onto the rug. Yep, that shit was soft as a baby’s ass. He glanced around the room. “This is nice, man.”

  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 fucking 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 fucking 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.

  Catching up with the guys at the shop was a strange experience. They all looked happy to see him, especially Paul, who, like Carter, had begged Max to get help for months, if not years, before he finally went to rehab. But Max couldn’t shake the feeling of detachment that had continually skulked within him over the past seven days.

  He’d been eagerly filling his time at Carter’s beach house with the treadmill—when the weather wasn’t agreeable enough for him to run on the beach—weights, playing guitar, reading, and even painting a little, but the ball of restiveness still weighed heavy in his spine. He’d continued to take his meds regularly, exactly when he should; attended his first NA meeting outside of rehab; spoken to Tate about it and arranged his first appointment with Dr. Moir; but still Max couldn’t settle.

  Carter had done more than bend over backward to accommodate Max’s needs, making sure that he had everything he could want to make his transition back into the real world as easy as possible. Kat, too, had been supersweet, cooking for the three of them and appearing genuinely interested in Max’s recovery. She didn’t cling to Carter, as Ma
x had assumed she might now that Max was back. She was, as always, attractive, ballsy, and independent. Even in the short time Max had spent with her and Carter in their home, it was still abundantly clear why they worked well together, even if the diamond on her left hand still caused Max’s stomach to twist in residual grief.

  It was all very bizarre and difficult to digest.

  “You’ll get there,” Tate assured him on the phone when they spoke later that evening, as Max lazed on the bed in Carter’s guest room.

  “Maybe I should go home,” he mused, although the sound of the ocean certainly kept him calmer than the noise of Brooklyn. “Maybe being in my own apartment might help?”

  “If you think it will, do it,” Tate encouraged. “But don’t isolate yourself.”

  Max sighed and rubbed his face with a tired hand. “Yeah. Christ, I just didn’t think it would be so . . .”

  “Different.”

  “Yeah,” Max agreed enthusiastically. “Everyone is being so fucking nice, so happy for me to be home, despite the shit I put them all through, but I just can’t . . . connect or relax.”

  “Ants in your pants?”

  “I guess. And I’m trying to keep busy and do things that keep my mind occupied. I want everything to go back to . . . before. Truth is, I’ve not stopped since I got back.” And he was tired, emotionally and physically. As nice as it was seeing all the familiar faces of his friends, it unnerved a deep-rooted part of Max. A part he hadn’t realized existed. These people, despite their smiles, were people he’d hurt, fucked over, disappointed, and even partied with.

  Tate sighed. “A common mistake people can make once they get home is that they try to take on too much right away. You can’t fix all the problems in your life in one week, Max. The first couple of years of recovery are a time of recuperation. You’re still fragile, man.”