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 mid-thirties, 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 post-parole.”
“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.
“Yeah,” he answered, jutting his chin out in defiance. “I did. So what?”
Carter frowned and then smirked. “Just checking,” he replied before launching the basketball over Riley’s head to his partner, Greg, who caught it and threw it, like a goddamn pro, through the hoop, winning the game by two.
“COME ON!” Carter roared with clenched fists. He ran over to Greg and grabbed him roughly around the neck, rubbing his knuckles a little too vigorously over his head. “MY MAN!”
“You fuckin’ cheat!” Riley yelled with a pointed finger. “You— You cheated!”
Carter laughed and shook his head after he released a relieved-looking Greg. “Losing without dignity or grace is not attractive, Moore,” he commented as he sauntered toward him.
“Yeah?” Riley questioned with his tongue planted in the right side of his mouth. “Well, Carter, I may not have dignity or grace, but I sure as hell have a fist for your face and a foot for your cheating ass.”
Carter stopped midstep, caught the glint in Riley’s eye, and within seconds was running like a bat out of hell across the court as Riley lunged his two-hundred-pound-plus frame in Carter’s direction.
“Come here, you pussy!” Riley cried, chasing Carter around the incredulous-looking inmates and guards.
Carter panted as he weaved and ducked from the ape’s grasp, unable to keep the huge smile off his face. His overwhelming happiness and smug satisfaction were halted abruptly when he realized he had nowhere else to go and was facing a brick wall with a huge human gaining on him. He spun around to face his pursuer and plead surrender, and felt every bit of air leave him in a huge gust and a loud strangled groan, as Riley plowed hard into him. Riley grabbed him in a headlock before Carter could even blink or protest and was dragged back, groaning and digging his heels in, to the center of the yard, where even the guards were laughing and jeering at the punk ass cursing through an almost-crushed windpipe.
“Riley,” Carter gasped, grabbing at the tree-trunk forearm around his neck.
“I’m sorry, what?” Riley asked loudly. “I don’t speak ‘cheating fucker.’ You’ll have to speak clearer.”
Carter couldn’t help but let out a choked bark of a laugh. “Riley!” He gripped his wrist with his long fingers. “Man, please! I’m— Dammit! Riley, I’m sorry!”
Riley smiled and winked at the large amused crowd that had gathered and released the neck that had been resting comfortably in the crook of his arm.
“Bastard,” Carter muttered. The gathering dispersed disappointedly when they realized that it really was all in good fun and that no one was going to have their ass handed to them.
Riley snorted. “Cheat.”
“Touché,” Carter conceded with a wry smile.
“Yo, Miss L!” Riley boomed, startling Carter.
He turned around to see Peaches walking from her car, half-hidden by a huge bag, toward the main entrance, waving discreetly toward Riley. Carter let the right side of his mouth rise in a small smile in her direction and frowned when she dropped her head and hurried on her way. Carter rubbed his stomach when a twinge of something uncomfortable curled deep and heavy. It’d been plaguing him for days.
Riley dropped his arms. “What was that about?” He stared, waiting for an explanation.
Carter rubbed his face before walking over to his regular seat and pulling out a cigarette. He lit his smoke, inhaled, held it, and exhaled with a shake of his head.
“She’s been weird for a couple of weeks,” he confessed, nodding toward the car lot.
“Miss Lane?” Riley clarified, to which Carter nodded and passed the smoke over to him.
Carter had tried to ignore Peaches’ behavior, but it’d been getting progressively harder with each session they had together. It’d started a few sessions after the initial parole meeting with Diane. She’d come into the tutoring room, barely looking or speaking to him for the entire hour. He hadn’t pushed the issue, sensing it was something that he maybe didn’t want to know about. But after two weeks, Carter’s patience was rapidly disappearing.
“Do you think it has something to do with your parole?” Riley passed the cigarette back.
Carter feigned indifference, even though he was petrified that was the reason behind her sudden distance from him. Maybe she was regretting having agreed to tutor him outside of the facility. Maybe she wanted to pull out but didn’t know how to.
Carter was no stranger to being let down, but, fuck, could Peaches really be like that? He hated the feeling of powerlessness she brought to him. It wasn’t even the thought of not being granted parole—even though that would suck major ass. It was more to do with the fact that he wouldn’t have a legitimate reason to see his Peaches outside of Arthur Kill.
He blew the smoke down his nose in a huff of annoyance, knowing the circle he was going in inside his head would not change one fucking iota until he said something to her.
“Just ask her, Carter,” Riley offered, looking out toward the fields at the back of the facility.
Carter snorted. “Yeah, sure, Riley.”
Riley clicked his tongue. “Pussy.”
“Whatever,” Carter retorted, dragging the last of the smoke for all it was worth before blowing it into Riley’s smug face. “Loser.”
Riley’s thunderous laughter and his palm slamming into Carter’s back in jest ensured Carter’s determination to confront her that very afternoon.
But fuck it all to hell if Peaches wasn’t wearing the most delicious gray skirt and pastel pink silk top when she walked into the session room five hours later, making all the coherent thoughts and blood in his head run in one very specific direction. Goddammit. He exhaled and mumbled something profane as she dropped the resources and Carter’s smokes on the table between them.
“Something wrong?” she asked with a quick look in his direction.
Carter chuckled into his hands and shook his head. “Nothing at all. Carry on.” The woman would be the death of him.
Carter cupped his face in his hands and watched her almost bury herself inside the Mary Poppins bag she’d brought with her.
“Peaches,” Carter muttered around the filter of the smoke resting on his bottom lip. His name for her had stuck well, and he used it liberally. Deep down he was stoked she let him get away with it without questioning how or why.
“Mmhm?” came the mumbled reply from the dark depths.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Peaches froze before she rose slowly from the cavernous monstrosity and gave a small, embarrassed smile. “Just—um, looking for something.”
Carter grinned. “What, Jimmy Hoffa’s necktie?” He raised his eyebrows at the guard, who hid his laugh behind his right hand.
Peaches rolled her eyes at the two of them. “No, smart-ass.”
She pulled out her chair next to him as she did during every session and laid out Carter’s work. She paused before explaining the comments she’d given him and asking questions raised by his answers. They were still very much involved in The Merchant of Venice.
“You say here that the character of Portia is the most intelligent character in the play, but you don’t explain why,” she said, reading over Carter’s work. He watched her tuck her hair behind her ear. “Could you explain?” She sat back, putting some distance between them while averting her stare.
“Why do you do that?” Carter blurted out.
“I’m sorry?”
“That,” he repeated, pointing at the way she was sitting. “Why did you move away like that?” His eyes widened when after a few seconds she hadn’t answered. “Forget it,” he murmured, pulling his work closer.
“No,” Peaches said firmly, placing her hand on the same piece of work. Carter’s eyes met hers. “What did you mean, Carter?”
He mumbled again, grabbing the pack of smokes to fidget with. Peaches waited patiently. “Are you wigging out because of my parole?” he snapped.
His question appeared to shock the hell out of her, but he didn’t give her time to respond.
“Because, frankly, I would much rather you be honest with me and tell me now. I mean, fuck, I don’t wanna be standing in front of those smug losers all hopeful and shit, for you to turn around and say that you ain’t gonna see this through because of … whatever.”
* * *
Kat blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged. How could he think that she would wig out on him? Hadn’t she proven her commitment to his case and parole with all the work she’d been doing?
Yes, she’d been behaving differently with him, but there was no way she could explain to him why. She’d rather die first.
The truth was, two weeks ago, Kat’s nightmares had stopped. She would have been eternally grateful, if they hadn’t been replaced by the most sensual dreams she’d ever had. They’d started tame enough, but over fourteen nights they’d become steamier and steamier. Usually, this wouldn’t have been a problem—she’d had racy dreams before, of course; however, the man starring in her personal porn show was none other than one Mr. Wesley Carter.
Ever since she’d started having the dreams, she’d officially been in hell.
How could she have such mind-blowing dreams about a man she hardly knew? And what the hell was she going to do about the fact that she was potentially going to continue seeing him for at least another twelve months, outside of the guarded, well-monitored, keep-your-hands-to-yourself-and-we’ll-all-get-along-fine environment of Arthur Kill?
Not that she would ever dream of putting herself or Carter in a position such as that. No way. She was still his tutor and he was her student. She was in a trusted position and she wouldn’t jeopardize what she’d worked so hard to build. The nonfraternization policy would no doubt be enforced during his parole, too.
“Why do you think I wouldn’t see this through?” she asked finally. “What gave you the impression that I didn’t want to help you get parole?”
“I don’t know. Shit, you just seem different. Like you’re worried about something or nervous. I didn’t know whether it was the thought of carrying on with our sessions that had you freaking out.”
He hid the hurt in his voice well, but his eyes betrayed him when they dropped to the table. He’d noticed her distance. Suddenly, Kat didn’t know whether to feel flattered or terrified that he had noticed at all. She swallowed down her panic and moved closer to him.
She fought down the overwhelming urge to touch his face. “I’m here for the long haul. I really want to help you get parole, and I want to keep our sessions going.”
Carter let his eyes meet hers.
“I’m sorry if I’ve made you doubt that. I won’t let you down. You can count on that one hundred percent.”
Kat was surprised at the vehemence of her own words but knew in her heart she meant them. Pound of flesh or not, she was going to help Carter, and no one could change that.
It took a moment for Carter to speak. “Okay.”
They sat for a few moments in silence, neither one of them finding it uncomfortable.
“Are you very nervous about your parole application?” Kat asked eventually after watching Carter put his cigarette out. He shook his head. “Shylock,” she murmured. “As brave as ever.”
“So says Portia,” Carter countered with a smile.
“The most intelligent character in The Merchant of Venice,” Kat said with a flirty undertone.
“Well, she did save Shylock,” Carter responded.
The metaphor was not lost on Kat. She knew Carter saw himself as less because of his life choices, much like people saw Shylock as less because of his religion. The comparison was tenuous, but to Carter, Kat knew, it was very real.
“That she did.” Kat’s eyes landed on his work. “But if we’re talking literary characters, I’m not sure that Portia is the right one for me to be compared to.”
“Oh, no?” Carter asked. “Who were you thinking? The Queen of Hearts from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland? Hecate from Macbeth?” He snapped his fingers with inspiration. “The White Witch in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?”
Playing off his jibes, Kat grabbed her pen, and began to make a shopping list. “No,” she deadpanned. “But thanks for reminding me what I need from the store: axe, cauldron, Turkish Delight.”
“Okay,” he said with a chuckle. “Seriously, who would you choose?”
“That’s easy,” she replied. “I would want to be Walter from Walter the Lazy Mouse.”
Carter looked puzzled. “Not a velveteen rabbit or a spider named Charlotte?”
Kat shook her head. “No. The girls at school used to read those. But for me, it was always Walter.” She turned toward him. “Do you know the story?”
“Tell me.”
“Walter was a very lazy mouse,” Kat began. “He’s so lazy he won’t get up for school or go out with his family or play with his friends, and soon they all forget about him. His family moves away one day while Walter is asleep.”
Carter slumped in his chair, listening intently.
“He decides to look for his family,” Kat continued. “He meets many creatures on his travels, including frogs that can’t read or write. Walter tries to teach them, but, because he missed so much school through sleep, he can’t remember how to.”
For a quick, heartbreaking moment, she heard her father’s voice as he read the story to her.
“Peaches,” Carter whispered.
Sadness weighed heavily on Kat’s shoulders. “My dad used to read it to me when I was a little girl. He used to do all the voices.”
Carter folded his arms on the table. “He sounds—he sounds like a good guy.”
A small smile tugged at Kat’s mouth. “He was. He would say no matter what the obstacles, if I was determined like Walter, I could do anything I put my mind to.”
“And did you?” Carter asked, taking her by surprise.
“Did I what?”
“Did you do whatever it was you put your mind to no matter what the obstacles?”
Kat smiled, embarrassed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.”
* * *
Carter noticed her eyes go to the wall behind him and cursed quietly.
Time’s up.
Carter watched, trying to feign indifference but silently mad as hell that she had to go, as she started to pack up her belongings.
“I might have a look for that book in the prison library, you know,” he said casually. “Do you think Arthur Kill library would stock children’s literature or is that just wrong on too many levels?”
Peaches failed to hide a smile.
“What the fuck am I talking about? Riley probably has it hidden under his pillow to read on cold, lonely nights. I’ll ask him.”
She giggled and Carter smiled at the sound.
“In all seriousness,” she said, pulling her bag onto her shoulder, “if you do find a copy, would you let me know? I lost mine.” The heartbreak on her face was clear.
“I will,” Carter answered sincerely.
“Hey, Carter,” she called as the guard unlocked the door for her. “Thanks for today.”
He smiled as the door closed slowly behind her. “Anytime, Peaches,” he whispered to the empty room. “Anytime.”