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

by Sophie Jackson

  The word made Max’s molars grind, but he understood Tate wasn’t trying to patronize him. Parts of him would continue to be very fragile. He’d come a long way in Pennsylvania, but he would always be a tiny tap away from shattering again. That was the life of an addict. All he could do was stay away from anything and anyone that could cause the damage.

  “Take it day at a time,” Tate repeated softly. “That’s all you can do.”

  “This place looks incredible!”

  Grace couldn’t hold back the squee of excitement that burst from her mouth as Kai walked through the downstairs of her no-longer-dilapidated house. It was still a long way from habitable, but with a freak week of dry weather, the builders had—once the termite problem was handled—built a brand-new roof, installed new floors and walls downstairs, and begun constructing the wide stairway up to the first level.

  “Can you see it now?” she asked knowingly.

  Kai laughed and tapped a palm against one of the new walls. “I can. I doubted I would, but I can.”

  Grace fist-bumped the air.

  “The work is really good, too,” Kai commented. “I’m impressed.”

  “Of course it’s good,” Grace retorted with an eye roll. “I wouldn’t hire just anybody. I’m not entirely helpless, you know. I can make good decisions.”

  Kai cocked an eyebrow and Grace immediately knew what was coming.

  “Don’t start,” she warned.

  The words exploded out of her brother in an incredulous blast. “Working behind a bar, Grace? With your anxiety the way it is. Really? Did you even give it a minute’s thought? Working in a place filled with strangers. Drunken strangers! The same environment where you met that piece of fuck—”

  “Kai.” Grace grumbled something offensive under her breath, turned heel, and stormed out of the house into the cool early spring air. “Why can’t you just . . .”

  Kai’s heavy footsteps followed her quickly.

  “This has nothing to do with him,” she hissed, still marching away from him. “I wanted to see if I could step out of my comfort zone, and I’m pretty sure in the few months I’ve worked at Whiskey’s I’ve done that. I’ve not had any attacks or flashbacks—”

  “Yes,” Kai agreed, still exasperated, almost falling over her when Grace came to an abrupt halt. “But you were told you needed to take things slowly”—he threw an arm back toward the house—“one crazy decision at a time.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Kai,” she fumed.

  Kai’s face dropped minutely, her words clearly surprising him. “That’s not my intention, Grace.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “I just— I worry about you. I want to make sure you’re safe and I can’t do that with you so far away. After what he did to you . . .”

  The anger boiling in Grace’s blood cooled considerably as she watched her baby brother’s shoulders slump in dejection. “I’m all right,” she murmured, placing her hand on his forearm and squeezing. “I know you think differently, and I love you dearly for it, but it’s not your place to protect me, Kai. Besides, he’s a long way away and I’m fine. Really. Sure, I still get nervous, jumpy, but I deal with it. Everyone has been so nice to me.”

  “Especially Deputy Colin, I’m sure,” Kai remarked icily.

  Grace snorted and shook her head. “It’s Deputy Caleb and he’s harmless.”

  “He looks at you in a way that suggests otherwise, Grace.”

  Despite the shiver of unease that slipped across her chest, Grace shrugged. “I can handle him. He knows I’m not interested in anything but being friends.”

  Kai watched her carefully. “Now that you’re here doing all of this, do you think you’d ever do that, like . . . be with anyone again?”

  Grace swallowed and took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

  The thought of being with a man in an intimate capacity made goose bumps erupt all over her body in alarm, but she couldn’t deny the loneliness that tugged at her heart whenever she saw couples in love, happy. Could she ever go there again? Maybe. If she could trust. Would it terrify her? Absolutely. But she’d always been a romantic at heart. It was ingrained in her in spite of what she’d been through at the hands of a man who’d sworn to honor and protect her.

  Kai wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, knowing where her mind had gone. “Come on,” he said, kissing her forehead. “You can show me your awesome bar skills and buy me a beer while Deputy Calvin pretends not to drool all over you.”

  Grace couldn’t help but laugh.

  Sweating like a bitch in heat, Max lumbered into the kitchen of Carter’s beach house and headed straight for the fridge. He pulled out a large bottle of water, which he proceeded to gulp. His run down the beach had been exactly what he’d needed after he’d awoken that morning with a hunger for a gram that almost crippled him. The night terrors had come back with a vengeance the previous night, too; a continual loop of images, which had Max fighting with his pillows and sobbing at two in the morning. It was the first time he’d suffered such cravings and nightmares in the three weeks he’d been home and it had done more than shake him.

  Tate had been a lifesaver at the end of the phone, offering to drive out, listening and telling him everything he needed to hear. The run had been his idea and Max had thrown himself into it. His body ached deliciously, subduing the craving from a crashing wave to a firm ripple, though the tiredness from his brain’s incapability to shut down and stay quiet weakened him to his very bones.

  Pulling the bottle of water from his mouth, Max screeched to a halt in the doorway of the sitting room at the same time Carter leaped up from the coach, adjusting his clothing and leaving a very embarrassed Kat in a flustered heap against the cushions. Max remained stock still having no clue what to say or do.

  Jesus, wasn’t that just the last thing he needed to witness.

  “Hey,” Carter said quickly, rubbing his hands over his short hair.

  “Hey,” Max replied, looking between the two guilty faces in front of him.

  “Good run?”

  Inexplicable yet steady annoyance slinked up Max’s throat at Carter’s smile and obliviousness. As much as they tried not to shove it in Max’s face, happiness exuded from both him and Kat on a sickening scale. And why the fuck shouldn’t they be happy? They were getting married; they were in love and content while Max was continuously fighting a horrendous battle against the current of his habit.

  He took a deep breath. “Sure.”

  Without another word, he headed toward the stairs. Dammit, he needed a shower and a stern word with himself. Being pissed because Carter was getting close with his fiancée in his own house was absurd, but shit, there it was. His foundations had been seriously wobbled by his need for a line, and his lack of sleep, making his temper short. He’d made it to his room door when Carter caught up with him.

  “I’m sorry, man,” he said, making Max turn.

  Max rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled, hopelessly trying to rein in his irritation. “No problem,” he replied flippantly. “It’s your house, right?”

  Carter’s brow furrowed. “Sure, but it’s not fair to— Are you okay?”

  Max shrugged petulantly. “As good as every other day when you’d fucking kill for something you can’t have.” His tone was biting, his words referring to so much more than the coke he yearned for, but, to his credit, Carter didn’t react.

  “You’ve spoken with Tate?”

  Max bit his tongue, holding back the spiteful retort that bubbled up from the black envy swirling in his belly, and nodded.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “No.” The word was swift and, although Max despised himself for it, laced with bitterness.

  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 fucking 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 fucking 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.

  “I don’t want to go back to my apartment,” Max stated. “I don’t want to go back to the city just yet.” Besides being too busy and loud for him to deal with, the place was filled to the fucking brim with temptation, reeking of bad history and worse habits.

  “I’ll support you no matter what you decide,” Tate said. “You know what you need better than anyone else. But make sure you’re making the decision to better yourself, not because you’re scared and running away.”

  Max scoffed. “But I am scared,” he confessed. “I’m fucking terrified.” His voice broke and he growled in exasperation. “I don’t want to let anyone down, or upset anyone. I’ve done too much of both in my life.”

  “But this is about what’s best for you, Max,” Tate urged. “Nobody else. If you need to be selfish, be selfish! And believe me, your friends only want what’s best for you.”

  Max fisted his hair. “I don’t want them to think I’m not grateful. I am. I just . . . need to be away from all of this for a while.” He sniffed. “I thought I’d started to find myself again, but now I feel more lost than when I fucking started. I don’t know where I belong.”

  Tate’s hand touched Max’s arm. “Then go and find out.”

  The bar was as busy as expected for a game night. The banter and cursing had already begun in earnest as the Orioles fell behind by three, with beer and food being ordered in tandem with each pitch. Not that Grace minded. On the contrary, she’d grown to like the atmosphere of Whiskey’s, and the fact that many of the regulars had started to warm to her made it even better. They’d been wary for a while but, thankfully, Holly had been integral to Grace’s being accepted into the fray. It was laughable, really, but that was bar politics for you.

  “Grace, can I have another draft, please?”

  “Sure, Earl,” she answered with a smile. “You’re not watching the game?”

  Earl lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. “Not this bunch of idiots,” he huffed. “Let me know when the Washington Nationals are playin’ and we’ll talk.”

  “No problem,” Grace replied with a laugh as she placed Earl’s beer in front of him while simultaneously lifting his ten-dollar bill from the bar.

  “Hey, pretty lady. How are you?” Grace smiled shyly at Caleb’s greeting as he sat himself down next to Earl at the bar and grabbed a handful of peanuts. She pulled a bottle of Heineken from the fridge and handed it to him.

  “I’m good. And you?” She was constantly polite with the deputy; after all, he was a paying customer and he was always pleasant and charming enough. Nevertheless, Kai’s distaste for him on his last visit had planted a
far from innocuous seed of caution in her belly. Despite Grace’s need to prove a point and be free in making her own decisions in life, her momma had always taught both her and Kai to listen to their guts. Not that her gut distrusted the deputy, of course, but she was guarded all the same.

  Caleb grinned and dipped his head. “I’m just great. The Baileys’ place is looking mighty impressive. Shouldn’t be long before you’re in there, huh?”

  Grace’s smile widened. It was true. The building was starting to look like a real, honest-to-God house. Floors were finished, as were the stairs, porch, and walls. Next week was all about the windows and Grace could barely contain her excitement.

  “I can’t tell you how amazed I am at Vince’s work,” she replied. “His team is incredible and—”

  “Did I hear my name?” Vince Masen, owner of Masen Construction and Masen’s Boardinghouse, smirked as he strode toward the bar. He was followed through the entrance by a group of six men whom Grace recognized as workers on the house. She’d seen them all before. Except one. “I hope you’re sayin’ nice things, Mrs. Brooks,” he drawled. “We’ve just finished up a twelve-hour day on your property.”

  Grace blushed. “It’s Ms., or Grace, and of course I was. I was just telling the deputy here that your work and your team’s work has been nothing short of extraordinary. I’m more than grateful.”

  Vincent Masen was a stocky man with a broad chest that spoke of years of labor and a head of salt-and-pepper hair that made him look distinguished. She guessed him to be in his midfifties but, from what she’d seen since his construction company had begun work on the house, he had the tenacity and the energy of a much younger man. He tilted his chin under her compliment and raised the glass of beer Grace paid for in thanks.

  The rest of the guys bought a beer each and ordered food, all except the new face, who stayed at the back of the group, tall, silent, and watching Grace with intense brown eyes that were framed with thick lashes. His irises were so dark they appeared endless in their intensity, like two huge Hershey’s Kisses filled with untold secrets. The hair on his head was almost black in the dim light of the bar; it was short at the sides, but long and wild on top, with bits that stuck up as though caught by surprise. His face was hard around the edges and shadowed with stubble that looked a few days old. From the lines around his eyes and mouth, he was either a lot older than Grace imagined, or he’d had a tough life. Either way, his face was not entirely displeasing to look at. Rather like a disheveled Colin Farrell, Grace mused.