“So what do you do, Kat?” Austin asked, noticing her stare.
“I’m a teacher,” she answered quickly. “English literature.”
“Like Beth,” he offered. “That’s great. What school do you teach at?”
“I teach at a prison, actually. Arthur Kill.”
Austin’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “Wow,” he said, glancing surreptitiously at his brother, who coughed uncomfortably into his palm.
Kat frowned. Okaaaaay.
“Beth didn’t mention it,” Adam said quietly, staring at his fiancée.
Beth shrugged. “Why would I?”
“Kill, huh?” Austin mused, his eyes still on his brother. “What a small world. We know a guy who’s spent time there. It must take some patience.”
Kat nodded, the loaded looks between the two men making her very curious.
“Come on,” Austin said, gesturing Kat toward their table. “Tell me all about it.”
* * *
Monday morning couldn’t come fast enough for Carter, and he made sure to take out all his nervous energy on the punching bag Ross held in front of him.
He’d been allowed into the prison library Sunday afternoon. After learning from a verbose Riley which play the class was studying, Carter immediately found a copy of The Merchant of Venice and some analytical studies on the text, which he proceeded to read from cover to cover through the night. He’d read the play before and knew the characters and storyline, but, once he was finished, he knew he was ready for anything his Peaches could throw at him.
He was sitting at the table of their usual room when she entered. Shit, she looked great. Her hair was down and a soft wave had appeared in the sections that framed her face. As much as Carter loved her hair, he loved seeing her face more, and he was at once annoyed that it was partially covered. He crossed his arms to stop the urge he had to push it behind her ears.
“Good afternoon, Miss Lane. How are you today?”
She paused, looking puzzled. “I’m well, and yourself?”
“Oh, I’m great.” All the more for seeing you.
“So, today we start Shakespeare,” she said, eyeing him carefully while she lifted all her resources from her bag and placed them in order on the table between them. Carter thought her perfectionist traits were at the very least adorable, and at the very most irritating as shit.
“Goodie,” he replied, resting his forearms on the edge of the table.
Peaches reached back into her bag and pulled out a pack of Marlboros, which she threw at him.
“Shut up,” she said playfully.
Carter grinned and pulled one out. He placed it between his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”
Once the cigarette was lit, Peaches once again moved her chair around to Carter’s side of the table. He was a little more prepared for it this time, but it didn’t stop the pulse of desire that shot through his body when she crossed her legs. She had fucking awesome legs. They curved in all the right places, and they weren’t skinny. There was enough there to grab on to. Suck on. Have wrapped around his—
“The Merchant of Venice,” Peaches said, placing the play in front of him. “Tell me what you know.” She rested her cheek in her palm.
He shifted in his seat. “Set in Italy, it’s classed as a comedy but many believe it was a tragedy due to the treatment of the main character Shylock.” Carter picked up the book and thumbed through it.
“Who’s Shylock?”
“Shylock is the loan shark who just happens to be a Jew in a predominantly Christian Shakespearean society. Unlucky for him.”
Peaches laughed. “I guess so. I’m interested, though, why do you say it’s a tragedy? What is tragic about Shylock?”
“He’s classed as a villain because of his religion.”
“He’s classed as a villain because of his demands for payment of a loan,” Peaches countered.
“Bullshit,” Carter continued firmly with an index finger pressed into the center of the book. “The demands he makes are fair.”
“Really? Demanding a pound of flesh to pay off a monetary debt is fair?”
Carter exhaled. She’d no idea how relevant her words were to him and the life he lived. “If you can’t pay a debt, you shouldn’t give your word.” His gaze roamed over the piece of hair hiding her left cheek, and he imagined what it would feel like between his fingers.
“His call for a pound of flesh may sound macabre,” he continued, “but the way he’s reviled because of his religion is even more so. He’s vilified because of his faith; his demand simply reinforces it. His demand is expected because of the prejudice of the narrow-minded bastards around him.”
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.”