“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Latham,” Peaches assured her.
The old lady took one more disapproving look at Carter before disappearing back toward her desk. Peaches collapsed into giggles. He laughed, too, watching her nose crease up and emit a small snort.
“Spiders,” she managed.
“What?” he asked, resting against the bookshelf next to her. “I hate them.”
She shook her head. “You’re one of a kind, Mr. Carter.”
He beamed. “You know it.”
They stared at each other for a small moment, seemingly lost in their own thoughts, before Peaches slapped the large book she’d grappled from the shelf into Carter’s stomach.
“Jesus!”
“Here,” she said with a smile. “Let’s find out more about your deviant sexual metaphors.”
Carter laughed and watched her fine ass walk away. “I thought you’d never ask,” he muttered, following quickly after her.
13
“Fuck it!”
Carter looked up from the screwed-up carburetor in his hand to see Max kicking the tire rim of the V8 Pontiac GTO he’d been cursing at for the past hour.
Carter walked over to him, wiping his grease-covered hands on a rag he pulled from his pocket. “Whoa, whoa, man, chill out. We don’t hit the ladies. What’s up?”
Max threw his hands through his hair. “This piece of crap.” He gestured toward the car.
Carter’s eyes widened in mock horror. He placed his palms against the driver’s door of the burnt-orange vehicle. “Don’t listen, baby,” he whispered to the car. “He doesn’t mean it.”
Max shook his head. “Whatever, man, I’m done.”
Carter frowned and propped his forearm on the car roof. “You’re done?” he asked in a baiting tone. “You give up so easy?”
“No,” Max snapped back defensively. “I just can’t—the fucking thing’s still idling high and— For fuck’s sake, Cam, turn that fucking shit down!”
Cam scurried to the stereo in the corner of the room and turned the Foo Fighters down to a dull roar.
Carter kept his stare on Max, knowing there was more to his bitching than the car’s high idling.
Max turned away from Carter’s meaningful look and opened a can of Coke he then proceeded to gulp. Once it was gone, he turned back to his friend, falling against the wall before sliding down. His eyes met Carter’s briefly before explaining quietly, “My blood sugar’s low, man.”
Having been diagnosed with hypoglycemia when he was a kid, Max managed to keep his blood sugar on a fairly normal level, but he was a cranky son of a bitch when it dropped. Carter reached into his back pocket and retrieved his bag of mini Oreos, throwing them at his friend.
Max put one in his mouth and hummed in pleasure. He offered the bag to Carter, who took two for himself.
“So, what else is up?” Carter asked after a moment of Oreo-appreciative silence. Max averted his eyes from Carter, who dropped to the floor next to him. “Since when do we keep secrets, Max?”
“I don’t have any secrets,” Max answered with a shake of his head. He looked so weary. “You know all there is to know.”
“Oh, really?” Carter countered. “So, if I know everything, when exactly were you going to tell me that you’re doin’ blow on the regular again?”
Max kept his eyes on the floor between his feet. “It’s just recreational, man.”
“I thought you were going to cut that shit out,” Carter said in exasperation.
“I know. I tried; you know I did. But it takes the edge off.” He rubbed his face with a somnolent hand. “I’m not … I’m not sleeping great. Truthfully, I haven’t slept great since … since she … Look, it gives me a boost.”
Carter’s stomach clenched for his friend and his inability to speak about the woman who’d broken his heart. He looked so lost. He nudged Max’s shoulder with his own. “I’m here if you wanna talk about Liz—”
Max’s head snapped up, his eyes burning. “Don’t.”
Carter sighed. “Okay. But you need to be honest with me.” Carter gave Max a pointed stare, which Max accepted with a slow nod.
Honesty had always been so important to the friendship they’d built over the years: honesty and trust.
“Dude, you look like shit. Your temper’s raw. You’re handling an expensive habit. Paul told me the books for the shop aren’t good. If you kick this shit, you know I can help you with the money side of—”
Max shook his head. “No, Carter. I don’t want your money. I’ve told you before.”
“It’s not my money,” Carter bit back. “It’s Ford money.”
“Whatever,” Max continued. “I’m not taking it. After you went to Kill for me and Liz …” He trailed off, the name clogging his throat with emotion. Then he coughed a bitter, cold laugh. “What a waste of fucking time that was.”
“Have you heard from her?” Carter hedged softly. Max rarely spoke of the woman who, by walking out on him and disappearing without even a “fuck you,” had shattered his heart six months after Carter was sent to Kill.