Here’s to achieving anything you put your mind to, no matter what the obstacles.
Happy birthday.
—Carter
11
Carter had barely slept. He was pumped and excited, much like a small child on Christmas morning.
At seven on the morning of his release, he was busy packing up his books and other belongings into a small box with great enthusiasm. The sheet of paper stating he had officially been granted parole was now his most treasured possession, and, at regular intervals, he would open it up and reread it, just to make sure that shit hadn’t changed in any way.
It hadn’t.
Carter’s civilian clothes were what he’d worn when he entered the facility. He was smug as shit when he saw that his gray Ramones T-shirt was now tight across his arms and chest, thanks to Ross’s vigorous workouts. He smiled and shook his head, pulling at the sleeves in an effort to give his biceps a little more room.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered before he pulled on his dark-wash jeans and his black boots. Denim and cheap cotton had never felt so fucking good. Next were his rings. He placed the thick silver band on the thumb of his right hand, a silver-and-black Celtic cross on his middle finger, and a sweet Harley-Davidson insignia on his left index finger.
“You nearly ready?”
Carter turned with a smile to see Jack leaning against the open door of his cell.
“Pretty much,” Carter replied, fastening his brown leather belt around the waist of his jeans. “When can I go?”
Jack glanced at his watch. “Doors open in ten. We’re waiting on Ward.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Carter muttered. He looked around his cell to see if he’d left anything behind, then picked up his box and pulled it close.
“So.” Jack pushed his hands into his pockets. “I delivered your little gift.”
Carter avoided his counselor’s gaze. “Great,” he replied casually. “There was enough cash?”
“More than enough, and I wrote exactly what you asked me to.”
Carter’s stomach somersaulted, thinking about Peaches receiving the book. He wondered if she liked it. He wondered if she thought it too much or too cheesy.
“I have to ask …” Jack continued, inspecting the toe of his right shoe.
“What?” Carter snapped.
Jack smiled knowingly before looking up. “I just wanted to know how the hell you managed to find a place that sold the book on such short notice,” he finished with an innocent shrug.
Carter’s shoulders collapsed in relief. “Peach—she, Kat, Miss Lane, had … um, well, shit, she mentioned it during one of our sessions, so I, I looked it up on the Internet in the library and put a hold on it. I was going to get it once I was out, but last week, when she mentioned it was her birthday …” He glanced up, shifting from one foot to the other, altogether uncomfortable as all fuck. “It’s not a big deal, man. Stop looking at me like that.”
“Hey,” Jack said behind a small chuckle. “I didn’t say a word. I thought it was a great gift: very thoughtful.”
Carter watched him cautiously. “Really?”
“Really,” Jack replied with a sharp nod. “I bet she loved it.”
Carter’s stomach twisted again. He hoped so. It was the least he could do for her; after all she’d done and had put up with from him.
“Inmate 081056,” Ward called, sauntering into the doorway of Carter’s cell. “I’m here to escort you off the premises.” He pulled at the cuffs of the white shirt he was wearing under a dark navy blazer.
“Goodie,” Carter murmured with a sardonic glare. Carter followed Ward, a guard, and Jack toward the back entrance of the facility, where he signed one more release form and received yet another copy of his parole conditions.
“How many of these does one person need?” he asked incredulously, pushing the piece of paper into the depths of his box.
“Well,” Ward retorted while he clicked the top of his pen, “we all know how forgetful you can be when it comes to rules, Carter.”
Carter picked up his box. “It was a rhetorical question, dickwad.”
Ward’s eyes shrunk in irritation. “What did—”
Jack stepped between the two men. “Come on now, Wes. Time to go.” He pushed on Carter’s shoulder, guiding him toward the exit.
Carter kept his stare on Ward before he allowed Jack to walk him out the door. The sun was hot for mid-September. Carter closed his eyes and lifted his face, breathing it in.
“That good?” Jack chuckled at his side.
“Yeah,” Carter answered. He opened his eyes slowly and began rummaging in his box. It took him a few minutes of cursing and muttering before he found his Wayfarers and placed them onto his face. “Now I’m fucking ready,” he said with a wide smile.
Jack laughed and rubbed his chin. He looked across the very far side of the lot to see a familiar large, black-haired figure leaning arrogantly against the front passenger door of a very hot muscle vehicle, smoking a cigarette.
“Is that Max?”
“Don’t start,” Carter warned with raised eyebrows. “He’s here to pick me up because I sure as shit ain’t walking home.”
Jack scoffed. “Well, it’s a definite conflict of interest to have him come and pick you up when—”
“Look!” Carter stopped Jack’s lecture dead in its tracks. “This is my release day. I’m finally free of this place and I’m currently in a good mood. Please don’t piss on my parade, J. I’ve had my fill.” Carter’s voice was firm but pleading.
“Fine,” Jack surrendered. “Fine.”
“Okay.” Carter sighed. “So, I’ll see you next Friday?”
“Yeah,” Jack replied. “Your place at six. Don’t forget.”
Carter shook his head. “Like that’s even possible with the six pieces of paper I have to remind me.”
Jack raised his hand and patted Carter on his shoulder. “Take care.”
“Sure,” Carter replied. “I’ll see ya.” He began walking toward Max, who was grinning like an idiot; his mirrored aviators glinted in the sunlight.
“What’s up?” he drawled around the plume of smoke that slipped from his mouth.
Carter smiled, despite the disheveled appearance of his friend. His AC/DC T-shirt was creased and his jeans looked as though they’d not seen a washing machine in a hella long time. “Not much; just released from prison, ya know.”
“Same old, same old, huh?”
“You know it.” Carter placed his box on the hood of the car and shook Max’s hand before they hugged with a slap of the back. “It’s good to see your ugly face,” he said, taking the smoke Max was offering. He regarded his friend as he took a much-needed drag. His hair was longer and he looked like he’d not shaved in a while. “How ya doin’?”
Max’s face pinched. “I’m okay.”
Carter sighed. “You sure?”
“Yeah, dude.” The smile Max offered was small. “Was that Parker?”
Carter nodded and leaned against the car.
“Carter!”
The two men looked up to see a flustered-looking redhead waving hesitantly and weaving through the parking lot toward them.
“Who the fuck is that?” Max pulled his shades down until they were resting at the tip of his nose. Carter immediately noticed the size of Max’s pupils and the dark lines under his eyes that screamed lack of sleep. He was fucking high. Jesus. It wasn’t even 8 a.m.
“No one,” Carter answered with an exasperated shake of his head. “Hold this a minute.”
He handed Max the cigarette and began jogging between the cars over to his Peaches. He didn’t need Max ogling her while they spoke. If he was high, the asshole might say anything.
“Hey,” he breathed, coming to a standstill in front of her.
“Hey,” she replied. “I’m sorry.” She glanced behind him. “I—I know you probably want to get going but, well, I—”
“It’s no problem,” Carter interrupted. “That’s just my buddy Max. He’s taking me home.” He pulled his shades off and tucked them in the neck of his T-shirt. “What’s up?”