Peaches stared at him. “You know a lot about debt?”
“I do,” he answered. “Do you?”
“I know what it’s like to give your word to someone,” Peaches said after a moment. Her eyes rested on the play, opened at Shylock’s most infamous speech. “I know what it’s like to pay that word off because you have no other choice but to see it through because you love that person so much it would be a tragedy if you didn’t.”
And that’s when it happened.
Carter couldn’t help himself. It was as if his body was working of its own accord, drawn to her, desperate for her touch. She just seemed so damned sad. His hand moved slowly toward her hair before he tucked it behind her ear. He could barely breathe as his fingertips touched the soft skin at the back of her ear, at the line of her jaw.
The guard by the door cleared his throat.
Peaches instantly sat back and brushed her hand down the skin he’d touched. Carter rubbed his fingertips down his thigh to ease the heat that resided there.
“I’m— Shit,” he mumbled, grabbing for another cigarette. “I shouldn’t have. Sorry.” He lit his smoke and inhaled three times in quick succession. “You just . . . you looked upset, ya know, and— Fuck it. I shouldn’t . . .”
All he’d wanted to do was make her feel better, smile, maybe.
“Carter,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. His eyes shot to hers, cigarette dangling from his speechless mouth. “It’s all right.” She gave a small smile. “I appreciated it. Thank you.”
Carter blinked. “Yeah,” he offered. “Yeah. Whatever. Cool.”
Peaches released his shoulder after giving it a reassuring squeeze and pulled the book closer. “Shall we continue?”
Carter groaned and rubbed his palms down his face. “Bring on that Shakespeare shit, Peaches.”
“Peaches?” she asked with a dip of her chin. “You keep calling me that. Where does that come from?”
Panic sliced through Carter. “It’s, um . . .” He fingered the cigarette pack. “I dunno. Why? Does it offend you?”
“No, I was just curious.”
He pulled long and hard on his smoke. “I can just call you Miss Lane, if you prefer.”
She was silent for a few seconds. “No,” she replied finally. “Most people call me Kat, but I guess you can call me Peaches—on one condition.”
“What’s the condition?” he asked with a wry grin.
Peaches folded her arms, pushing her boobs up in ways that looked all kinds of awesome. “If I can call you Wes.”
Carter stared at her. Well, hell. His name had never sounded so soft, so . . . nice. “I— That’s a . . . I’m not sure. I mean, only Jack calls me that,” he stammered, throwing his cigarette into the ashtray. “I’m not— I mean, Christ.” Both hands found his scalp. How could he explain his hatred of his Christian name? That was a long-ass, depressing story.
“Okay, I get it. Carter it’ll be,” she said, touching his right shoulder blade. “Actually, instead, maybe I’ll name you after a fruit. How about Kiwi?”
The burst of laughter that exploded from him felt new and fantastic. Peaches laughed along with him. Dammit, she was gorgeous when she laughed. Her whole face lit up and her eyes crinkled, almost disappearing. Carter was mesmerized.
“Okay, enough of this.” She chuckled. “Let’s get to work.”
The discussion points she produced elicited heated debates, which they both enjoyed more than they should have. They argued and undermined one another, but the atmosphere was playful and light and, Carter couldn’t deny, sexy as hell.
“Shit,” Peaches cursed, taking Carter by surprise. “It’s late.”
He glanced at the clock. They’d run over by twenty-five minutes. “Time flies when you’re having fun, right?” The wink he sent her way caused her cheeks to pinken. “You, um, you got a date or something?” Carter asked as she rushed, throwing her shit into her bag.
“Oh no!” She gave a vigorous shake of her head. “I don’t have a date. I—I’m single.” She snapped her mouth shut and briefly closed her eyes.
Carter could barely hide his elation. Or his relief. She belonged to no one. No man had claimed her, made her his. His mind boggled. Christ, were they all fucking insane?
“Hey, Miss Lane,” he called with a grin as she set off with her things across the room. “I enjoyed today.”
“Me too,” she answered, mirroring his smile. “Oh, and Carter . . .” She turned back to him while the guard opened the door. “The name’s Peaches.”
9
Carter was anxious. He was anxious and nervous and dammit, where the hell was Peaches?
He was sitting in a nicer room than normal, alongside Jack and his rat-faced attorney. Diane, his case manager, was due in fifteen minutes and Peaches still hadn’t arrived. She was definitely in; Jack had told him so when he’d asked indifferently of her whereabouts. He hadn’t been able to ignore the way Jack eyed him. That shit made him nervous.
The door opened and Carter’s leg ceased its bouncing when Peaches entered. She was stunning in a pale blue top and black pencil skirt. Her hair was up in a loose twist and Carter immediately wanted to unfasten it and grab a handful, just so he could smell it, to see if it still smelled of the sweet peaches he remembered.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she told Jack while glancing at Carter.
He caught the look and smiled. Jack cleared his throat at his side and Carter’s face dropped instantly. Shit. Jack was aware of there being “something” between the two of them, and had asked frequently about Peaches ever since his stupid ass had passed out. It was only a matter of time before Jack would figure it all out.
He’d have to be more careful. He knew he’d been a lot calmer around her. Where Peaches was concerned, his temper had been under control and, as positive a thing as that was, it could prove to be very dangerous. With that thought, he slouched in his seat, averting his eyes from her, and went to work picking at the cuticle on his right thumb.
As if on goddamn cue, Ward entered the room, followed by Diane. She was a striking woman in her midthirties, with large dark eyes and brown hair that rested just under her shoulder blades in deep waves.
Ward began by making the introductions to Peaches, who blushed wonderfully when Diane praised her on the work she’d done. Diane walked over to Carter’s table and, without a word, pulled out all the necessary papers. She took a seat opposite Carter and began writing at the top of the application form.
“How are you?” she asked him. “You look well.”
“I’m just dandy,” he answered in his usual blasé, cocky tone.
Diane ignored it. “The parole board is convening in six weeks. Your hearing will be then. But I have a few concerns regarding some instances that may have an impact on your application.”
Carter bristled.
“I have evidence here,” Diane stated while she held up another form, “that you’ve shown aggressive behavior toward other inmates, staff, including Miss Lane and Mr. Ward, and have threatened guards while in their charge.”
“That’s because one of them assaulted me,” Carter fumed. “Damn near broke my wrist!”
“Wes,” Jack warned with an imperceptible shake of his head.
“I’ll be sure to look into that,” Diane assured Carter, making a note in her diary. “But, regardless,” she continued, lifting her head, “you have far more negatives than positives at this point. The question is, what are you doing to counteract these incidents?”
“As you know,” Jack said after a moment of tense silence during which Carter pretended that his right shoe was the most fascinating item on the planet, “Wes has been working with Miss Lane on a three-day timetable, studying English literature.”
“Yes, I do know this,” Diane answered. “How have the sessions been, Miss Lane?”
Peaches smiled. “They’ve been excellent. Carter’s worked well. He’s engaged and has many perceptive ideas about the topics we’ve discussed
.”
Diane made a quick note. “I understand that Carter and you had a couple of, shall we say, run-ins when you first started.”
Peaches crossed her legs. “That’s correct.”
“But not anymore?”
“No. Carter and I have come to an understanding in terms of his conduct during the sessions. Carter’s attitude has been positive and cooperative. It’s clear that he wants to learn and do well.”
“That’s great, Carter,” Diane said with a nod.
“But?” he and Jack said in unison.
“But the board members aren’t stupid. They’re aware that your attending these sessions could be a way of simply scoring points with them.”
“With all due respect,” Jack interrupted, “isn’t that the point?”
“Yes, of course,” Diane concurred. “But Carter needs to show that he’s doing it because he wants to and views everything he learns as useful in the long term.” She turned to Carter. “That’s what parole is all about, Carter: the long term.” She fixed him with a sharp stare. “I have to be honest. Despite your eligibility date, the board may see your past conduct as your way of not observing the rules of this institution.”
Carter’s gaze flickered to Peaches, disappointment radiating through him.
“How long-term are we talking?” Carter’s lawyer asked as he scribbled on a yellow notepad. “How long will Carter’s parole be?”
Diane sat back. “As per his eligibility, if the hearing examiner grants his parole, that would mean he’s released fifteen months early.”
“So twelve months,” the lawyer finished for her.
“I would expect so. I would be surprised if they agreed to anything shorter. The first nine months would be monitored closely by myself, an assigned parole officer, and Jack, should he wish to continue with his meetings postparole.”
“So, do we keep doing the tutoring sessions post-parole?” Peaches asked.
“That would definitely be something to consider,” Diane replied. “It would show the board Carter is dedicated and serious about his rehabilitation, but you need to discuss that among yourselves and decide before the hearing. Is there anything you would like to ask or add, Carter?”
Carter cleared his throat. “If, um, if I continue with the sessions when I’m released, we do those for how long? I mean, do we do them forever?”
Diane shook her head. “At the end of your initial nine months of monitoring, you’ll meet again with the board and the situation will be reviewed. If Miss Lane does agree, then she will have to keep rigorous notes detailing what you’ve studied and what the outcomes are, as well as meet with the board to explain them.”
“That’s not a problem,” Peaches said firmly.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Diane turned back to Carter. “But you know there will be other terms to meet, including regular drug testing and curfews.”
Yeah, parole was all fun and fucking games.
· · ·
Carter looked like he was ready to start smoking his coveralls when Kat walked in.
“Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me you have some—”
“Cigarettes.” Kat smiled, holding up a pack of Marlboros. “Here ya go, Champ,” she said, tossing them to him.
He pulled them open and grabbed at one.
She watched as Carter inhaled the smoke and closed his eyes. He did it twice more before he looked at her.
“Thanks,” he murmured through a smoky haze.
She moved around to his side of the table, glancing at the guard, who now appeared unworried by her proximity to his inmate. She flattened out the text of The Merchant of Venice in front of Carter and sat back with her own.
“I wanted to have a look at this particular speech.” She motioned to the page. “I was interested to hear your interpretation of it.”
“This speech? How predictable.”
Kat huffed. “Predictable or not, it’s an important part of the play and I want to hear what you think of it. But maybe your answer will be just as predictable as my speech choice.” She’d grown to enjoy riling him.
Carter cocked an eyebrow. “Okay, Peaches,” he said, sitting back in his seat. “I’ll bite. What do you want to know?”
“Amaze me.”
He snorted and blew out the last of his cigarette. “The speech is spoken by Shylock.”
“Wow,” Kat retorted with wide eyes. “That’s awesome! Shakespeare scholars the world over will be peeing themselves in excitement at your amazing insight!”
Carter chuckled. “Okay, Peaches,” he replied. “ ‘I am a Jew . . .’ ”
Kat’s mouth popped open. She listened to him quote the entire speech without looking once at the page in front of him. Instead, his eyes bored into hers, blue and bright. Hearing him speak Shakespeare’s words was indescribably erotic. His eyes burned with a passion Shylock would no doubt have conveyed to the courts as he expressed his anger at the wrongdoing that had befallen him.
Trying hard to remain composed, Kat said, “Impressive. But you still haven’t answered my question.”
Carter raised his eyebrows. “It’s mainly about revenge. He’s understandably pissed about the way he’s been treated because of his religion and he vows to match the ‘villainy’ with his own. Only his ‘villainy’ will be a lot worse. Shylock’s a badass.”
“So, does that excuse Solanio and Salerio’s treatment of him? He’s a badass; surely he deserves everything that comes to him?”
Carter scoffed. “They’re only treating him that way because they’re narrow-minded shits who see nothing but a label on Shylock. For them, ‘Jew’ means ‘evil.’ But the blatant anti-Semitism isn’t the most important aspect of the play or speech.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” Carter replied, firmly sitting forward. “Shylock says, ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?’ He’s making the point that no matter his religion, or label or whatever, he is human just like the bastards who treated him like shit. People everywhere, every day, make judgments about others because of their color, religion, background, race, sexual orientation . . . criminal history.”
He glanced up at her.
“The world is a shitty place, and Shylock’s the only one in the entire play with the balls to make a point about it. The irony that the supposed unintelligent, evil, uneducated Jew has such courage is what makes the shit important. The fact that he’s a Jew is simply a plot device.” He exhaled and rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand. “Shakespeare could have made him an inmate at Arthur Kill if such a place existed then.”
Kat was astounded. His fervor made her wonder what bigotry he’d encountered to make him sympathize with the character so much. Had he been treated a certain way because of his time in prison?
He slumped back, grazing the back of his hand against her knee, and her breath caught at the contact. “People think he’s barbaric because he promises revenge, but who the fuck can blame him? If they’ve labeled him as such, why shouldn’t he live up to it?”
“He could have surprised people,” Kat answered, noticing a definite change in the tone of the discussion. “He could have behaved differently, calmly, and shown that he was a good person.”
Carter shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. If the shoe fits—or the label.” He pointed to himself. “Criminal. There’s no amount of good that erases that shit. It’s easier to live up to people’s expectations than try to change them. It avoids disappointment for all involved.”
Kat frowned. “Then why are you here, and why have I said that I’ll help you get parole and put up with your grumpy ass for potentially another twelve months?”
Carter smiled briefly. “I don’t know, Peaches. Why did you?”
Kat kept her eyes on him for a long time before dropping them to the play. “I have my reasons.”
“Your own pound of flesh.”
Her head snapped
up at his words, but he was busy playing with the cigarette box. He took a deep breath. “And I’m here because . . . I had to be.” Confused, Kat opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her. “Did you really mean it?”
“Did I mean what?”
“That you’ll carry on with our sessions.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I want to help in any way I can.”
Carter’s mouth twitched. “Why?”
Kat smiled. “Because I’m a glutton for punishment.”
Carter coughed a surprised laugh. “Fair enough. For a moment I thought it was because you just wanted to be near my hot ass without guards and cameras, but, you know. Whatever,” he deadpanned.
Kat cupped her palms to her face. “I am so transparent.” She laughed at Carter’s snort of amusement. “Now shut up and do this work.” She pushed a sheet in front of him, along with a pen.
“Yes, ma’am,” Carter replied with a wink that sent parts of Kat’s body into a small frenzy.
No guards or cameras, she mused as she watched him start writing. She let her eyes explore him from his sexy buzz cut to the sharpness of his stubbled jaw. Her blood warmed in excitement when her mind began to wander.
· · ·
“Fucker!”
“Motherfucker!”
“Shithead!”
“Shithouse!”
“Bitch!”
Carter stopped moving and stood slowly from his stooped position, halting the basketball by grasping it in one large hand. He cocked a puzzled eyebrow at Riley who was panting with gritted teeth and red cheeks. Carter watched him for at least twenty seconds before realization passed over the big fuck’s face.
“What the hell you waiting for?” Riley growled, standing a little straighter.
“Did you just call me a bitch?”
Riley stood to his full height and glared back at him. He sniffed and glanced around at the other two inmates who’d been playing the fast-paced, almost violent game of basketball for the past forty minutes. They both began to shift uneasily from one foot to the other. Riley leveled his stare back at Carter.
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