Текст книги "A Pound of Flesh"
Автор книги: Sophie Jackson
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Copyright © 2015 Sophie Louise Jackson
Cover photograph © Wallenrock/Shutterstock.com.
Cover design by isitdesign.co.uk
The right of Sophie Jackson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Extract from A Farewell To Arms copyright © 1929 Ernest Hemingway,
first published by Sribner.
Published by arrangement with Gallery Books,
a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
First published as an Ebook in Great Britain in 2015
by HEADLINE ETERNAL
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 2464 4
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.headlineeternal.com
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for Sophie Jackson
By Sophie Jackson
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
A sneak peek of An Ounce of Hope
Find out more about Headline Eternal
About the Author
Sophie Jackson is an English teacher from Chorley. Although she read and wrote furiously as a child, she first started writing as an adult, to scratch the creative itch, for the website FanFiction.net, after reading the Twilight series in 2008. She wrote and posted a number of Twilight fanfics, chapter by chapter, and built up an impressive readership.
For more information, visit Sophie’s website www.sophiejacksonauthor.com, and find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/SophieJacksonRomance and on Twitter @sophiejax.
Prepare to fall for the powerful storytelling of Sophie Jackson:
‘[Sophie] writes the type of stories today’s reader wants: beautifully created characters filled with emotion, and a storyline that sticks with you long after you turn the last page’ Tara Sue Me, New York Times bestselling author of the Submissive series
‘A Pound of Flesh is an intriguing tale of acceptance, and understanding, and finding love in unexpected circumstances. What sets it apart from others is the way Sophie weaves storylines to build suspense before everything ultimately comes together, leaving the reader guessing and gasping until the very end’ J. M. Darhower
‘This forbidden love story is rife with danger and will impart that feeling of sneaking risqué books under the bedcovers with a flashlight and staying up past your bedtime to finish an amazing story. Jackson convinces readers that love can be found in the most unlikely places and situations. This one is entirely heartfelt, hot and should be the very next book on your TBR list’ Romantic Times
By Sophie Jackson
A Pound of Flesh Series
A Pound of Flesh
Love and Always (e-novella)
An Ounce of Hope
About the Book
Can true love heal the deepest scars?
Wes Carter
Dangerous, brooding and behind bars, Carter’s emotional scars are as permanent as the ink on his skin.
Kat Lane
Vibrant and gutsy, Kat chooses to become a prison tutor in tribute to her father whose murder haunts her.
Although worlds apart, when their eyes meet, Carter and Kat’s searing attraction is instant.
As teacher and student, any relationship is against every rule.
But although their love is forbidden, it won’t be denied …
For Mum. I am forever in your debt.
Acknowledgments
This book would never have existed without many people’s love, support, and encouragement.
Firstly, thank you to my family, especially my mum who, despite her eye-rolling at my ever-changing obsessions, became my own personal cheerleader during this whole process. From when it all went wrong and I thought this book was never going to happen to when it finally became right and I was neck deep in edits with the end seemingly so far away, she was always there calming me down, pulling me through, telling me that of course I could do it. You’re my hero and always will be. I love you.
Sally, Rhian, Babs, Irene, Nicki, Caro, Sash, and Lisa, the original PAW Princesses. Who would have thought it? Your continued support throughout this entire journey, from your patience with my tri-monthly (sometimes longer) chapter posts, our read-along Skype sessions, our Manchester meet-up to the announcement that PoF was going to be published, will forever be invaluable to me. You are all wonderful women and friends, and I am truly blessed to have you in my life.
To my amazing friends and my incredible online family: Steph, my workout queen, Kim, my lobster, Afiyah, my Minion twin, Lauren, my Stucky lover, Tara Sue Me, for your invaluable advice and support, J M Darhower for your inspiring words, Liv, Laura, Rose—I could go on and on. I am insanely lucky to say that there are too many of you to mention. Your unrivaled excitement made the hard parts of this so much more bearable and the good parts so damned enjoyable. To every reader, reviewer, blogger, manip maker, banner maker, to every voter of every fandom award, to every hugger, texter, caller, and tweeter, you are all of you awesome and my love for you is immeasurable. You are the reason this is happening. Thank you for accepting my crazy fixations and for having so much belief in this and in me. Thank you for putting up with the good, the bad, and the ugly. I am proud and privileged to know each and every one of you. Lettuce spoon.
To my beautiful Pennsylvanian soul mate, Rachel. My original cherub. It seems like only yesterday that I sat down at your computer and wrote the prologue to PoF. Who knew, huh? We’ve come a long way, baby, and my love for you is still as strong as it was when you sent me that first online review. Your creative talents and your sunshine personality are so precious to me. You’re a truly wonderful friend, your family is beautiful, and I can’t wait to spend more laughter-filled summers with all of you.
To my superstar agent, Lorella Belli, the hardest working person in the literary world! What a journey it’s been. Never once did you let me get downhearted when things looked bleak, never once did you lose hope when I was ready to throw in the towel. You are the most inspiring of people. I am in awe of your faith and fight, and I know without either this book would still be just a dream. Thank you so much for everything you have done and continue to do for PoF and me. I am beyond grateful. And to my U.S. co-agent, Louise Fury. Your love for the characters of this story will forever make me smile. You rock. Thank you for being the most awesome of sidekicks.
To my fabulously fabulous editor, Micki Nuding, who’s put up with so much from me! You have the patience of a saint, woman. And to all the team at S & S and Gallery Books: Thank you for taking a chance on me and my story, and for making my dream a reality.
To Emily, for all of your work and enthusiasm, I thank you muchly.
Special thanks to Kate and Jo from Headline Eternal who not only have awesome taste in restaurants, but have also been amazingly patient with me, my technical ineptitude, and graciously answered the innumerable questions I’ve fired at them during this whole process. Thanks, ladies. You’re fab. And to the rest of the team at Headline Eternal, thank you for all your hard work and for giving me this opportunity. It means more than I can say.
And, finally, to you for getting to the end of this long-ass thank-you note. Here, have an Oreo and a Coke. You damned well deserve it.
PROLOGUE
The pound of flesh which I demand of him
Is dearly bought; ’tis mine and I will have it.
–The Merchant of Venice, Act 4, Scene 1
The hurried sound of their feet on the sidewalk matched the frantic pace of her heart, while her father’s grip on her hand was almost painful. Her short nine-year-old legs struggled to match his strides, causing her to stumble, all but jogging to keep up. There was a tightness in his jaw she’d never seen before, and his eyes, usually so bright and carefree, were as dark and angry as the sky above them. Foolishly, she felt the sudden urge to burst into tears.
A sound behind them made her look back. From out of the mouth of an alley slunk five hooded men who, despite keeping their heads down, kept up with her father’s swift gait, stalking them like wild animals.
Her father may have uttered words of comfort, words to soothe the fear that crept across her neck, but they were eaten up by the sidewalk when something hard and fast came from behind them, sending her father sprawling, taking her down with him. Disoriented, with knees that burned from skidding across the concrete, she looked up and screamed as a baseball bat connected with her father’s back twice, conjuring sickeningly dull thuds from his body.
She didn’t see the direction from which the hand came that struck her hard across the face, sending her tumbling over the curb and into the street, stars dancing in her vision and her father’s furious bellow ringing in her ears. He staggered to his feet and launched himself at one of their attackers. She watched in horror as fists, feet, and bats rained down on him in retaliation.
Above the cacophony of shouted demands for his wallet, through the barricade of bodies surrounding him, her father yelled at her to run. He pleaded and begged as they battered him, but cold struck her, freezing her solid. How could he ask her to leave? She had to help him, save him! Tears ran down her face and an animalistic cry erupted from her throat.
He groaned in agony when another fist met the side of his head, and his knees hit the ground as she started toward him. She reached out to him, but her arm was unexpectedly pulled hard in the opposite direction. She whimpered in relief, expecting to see a police officer or her father’s security detail—but it was someone not much taller than she was, in a dirty black hoodie.
She screamed loudly when he began to drag her away from where her father was being beaten, fighting and screaming at him to let her go when he hissed at her from under his hood. Did he not realize that her father needed her, that he would surely die without her help? But the stranger kept going, pulling her down the street into the doorway of an abandoned building, two blocks from where the terrifying sound of gunfire filled the air.
She screamed for her father, yanked her hand hard from her rescuer’s grip, and began running back in the direction of the attack. She hadn’t made it far when she was wrestled to the ground by strong hands that pinned her down. She continued to scream underneath him, fighting with everything she had, but soon her body became heavy and exhausted, and her cries and screams became wracked sobs that stuttered into the cold ground beneath her forehead.
The weight on top of her disappeared and two hands lifted her, pulling her back into the freezing doorway. She slumped against him and mewed in pain into his dirty hoodie. She needed to get back to her daddy. She needed to see that he was okay. He had to be okay. An arm around her shoulder and an icy hand against her cheek was her undoing, and she wilted further against her unknown rescuer.
She may have stayed that way for hours; she may have even fallen asleep. The next thing she knew, she was being carried by a man with a beard toward an ambulance. She opened her tear-swollen eyes and saw police and paramedics surrounded by a sea of red and blue flashing lights.
Their expressions, which would haunt her for the rest of her life, told her unequivocally that her father would not be tucking her into bed that night.
Or ever again.
1
Wesley James Carter, Arthur Kill Correctional Facility inmate and all-around punk, smirked at the disgruntled prison guard who’d been demanding his prison number for the past ten minutes. To say that Carter’s insolent behavior and amused expression were agitating the overweight, balding man would be an understatement. Dude was nearly foaming at the mouth.
It was Friday, and five minutes after the guard had clocked out.
All the more reason for Carter to be a difficult bastard.
The guard ran an impatient hand over the back of his plump neck and his tired eyes narrowed. “Listen,” he warned in a low, dangerous voice that no doubt worked like a knife to the throats of other inmates. “It’s very simple. You give me your number. I put it on this form that I have to complete for your corrections counselor, and then I get to go home.”
Carter raised a defiant eyebrow and glared at the pudgy shit.
Undeterred, the guard sat back in his swivel chair. “You don’t give me your number and my wife gets pissed. She gets pissed and I have to explain to her that some cocky punk kept me waiting. Then she’ll get more pissed and yell that our tax dollars are what keep losers like you in three meals a day and coveralls.” He sat forward. “So, last time. Number.”
Carter glanced nonchalantly at the guard’s fist gripping the baton attached to his belt and exhaled a long, bored breath. Any other day, he’d be ready for the douche to take a shot; he’d take the beating with a smile plastered on his face. But today, he wasn’t in the mood.
“081056,” Carter answered coolly, unable to resist a small wink.
With a fierce scowl, the guard scribbled the number on the form, then wheeled his seat over to give the form to a young blonde admin assistant. The fat fuck was too lazy to get up and walk the six steps.
Carter waited while Blondie typed in the number that had been his adopted name for the past nineteen months. He knew what charges would appear on the monitor: car boosting, handling a dangerous weapon, drug possession, drunk and disorderly conduct to name just a few. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t proud of the list of crimes and misdemeanors, which could fill up two full screens. Nevertheless, it did give him a sense of self, which was something he’d been searching for aimlessly most of his twenty-seven years. He was still searching for it and, until he found that something the list was all he had.
Whatever.
He rubbed a palm across his buzz cut. He was sick of thinking about it.
The sound of paper ripping from an ancient printer had him back on point.
“Well, Mr. Carter.” The guard sighed. “It appears your stay with us stretches for another seventeen long months. Being caught with coke will do that.”
“It wasn’t mine,” Carter uttered flatly.
The guard gave him an insincere look of pity before grinning. “Damn shame.”
Carter didn’t respond, knowing that his parole application was mere weeks away, and snatched the form with a quick hand.
Flanked by another stern-looking guard, Carter strode past the desk and down a long, narrow corridor toward a white door, which he opened with a loud slap of his palm. The room was claustrophobic and sterile, and reeked of confessions. Despite the many hours he’d spent in the godforsaken place, it still made his pulse quicken and his palms sweat.
With a straight back and stiff shoulders, he walked toward the cheap wooden table where a large ape of a man smiled as Carter approached.
“Wes,” Jack Parker, his corrections counselor, greeted him. “It’s good to see you. Please take a seat.”
Carter pushed his hands into the pockets of his coveralls and dropped ungracefully into the chair. Jack was the only person who used his first name. Everyone else called him Carter. Jack had been insistent about it, explaining that it was a way the two of them could build a trusting relationship.
Carter had explained that was a crock of shit.
“Got a smoke?” Carter glanced dismissively at the guard standing at the door at the other end of the room.
“Sure.” Jack tossed a pack of Camels and a book of matches onto the table.
Carter’s long, pale fingers grappled with the wrapper. It’d been two days since his last cigarette. He was desperate. Two broken matches and a string of curses later, he finally inhaled the thick, lush smoke. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and, for a split second, all was right with the world.
“Better?” Jack asked with a shrewd smile.
Blowing the smoke across the table, Carter nodded.
Carter was impressed when Jack resisted the urge to wave the smoke away. They both knew doing so would only encourage Carter to do it more; he gripped on to any sign of weakness or irritation with the tenacity of a terrier.
It was a defense mechanism, apparently.
They’d discussed it in one of their first sessions. The mechanism was so well executed that Carter came across as strong, dominating, and, the majority of staff and inmates at Arthur Kill would agree, intimidating as hell.
Jack pulled a seven-inch-thick file from his briefcase and opened it, flicking through the numerous reports, court statements, and testimonials that, over the years, described Carter as being a “menace to society,” a “strong-willed character,” and an “intelligent individual who lacks the self-confidence to assert and channel it correctly.”
Again, whatever.
Carter was tired of hearing how much potential he had. Yeah, he was intelligent, and fiercely loyal to the people he cared about, but for as long as he could remember, he just couldn’t seem to find a path that fit. All his life he’d been drifting, never welcome or comfortable in a place for long, dealing with his fucked-up family and friends who couldn’t stay away from fucking drama for more than five minutes.
At least in lockup, shit was simple. Real-life problems were like urban myths told by those who visited from time to time. Not that Carter had many regular visitors.
Jack turned to the final page of the file and wrote the date at the top of the blank piece of paper, then pressed the record button on the small digital voice recorder sitting between them.
“Session sixty-four, Wesley Carter, inmate number 081056,” Jack began in a monotone. “How are you today?”
“Peachy keen,” Carter replied, stubbing out his cigarette while lighting another.
“Good.” Jack wrote a small note on the paper in front of him. “So, I attended a meeting yesterday regarding your enrollment in a couple of classes here at the facility.” Carter rolled his eyes. Jack ignored it. “I know you have strong views on the subject, but it’s important that you do things to challenge yourself while you’re in here.”
Carter dropped his head back and frowned at the ceiling. Challenge? The whole place was a damned challenge. It was a challenge to get through each day without blowing his freakin’ gasket at some of the dumb fucks in the place.
“There are a few options,” Jack continued. “English literature, philosophy, sociology. I explained to Mr. Ward and the education specialists that although you’d had problems with your previous tutors, you’ve changed from the seventeen-year-old high school dropout you used to be. Right?”
Carter cast him a skeptical glance.
Jack placed the tips of his fingers under his chin. “What would you like to study?”
“I don’t care.” Carter shrugged. “I just wish they’d leave me the fuck alone.”
“It’s all part of the conditions for the chance of early parole. You need to show progression in your rehabilitation. And if taking a couple of classes while you’re here does that, then you have to play the game.”
Carter knew that, and it infuriated him. Since the age of fifteen, he’d been passed from one lawyer, parole officer, and counselor to the next, with no thought about how or if he would ever do something more meaningful with his life. Though what meaningful meant, Carter had no fucking idea.
Nevertheless, after nineteen months at Kill, he was starting to think spending the rest of his days locked up wasn’t the attractive prospect he’d initially perceived it to be.
As a wayward, arrogant, angry teenager, he’d enjoyed having a revered reputation. Now the excitement and thrill had waned. Court, detention centers, and prison were old news, and he was getting bored with the law institution as a whole. If he didn’t change his shit, he’d be on the wrong side of thirty wondering what the fuck happened to his life.
Jack cleared his throat. “Have you had any visitors recently?”
“Paul came last week. Max is coming Monday.”
“Wes.” Jack sighed, pulling off his glasses. “You need to be careful. Max—he’s not good for you.”
Incensed, Carter slammed his palm on the table. “You think you have the right to say shit like that?”
Carter knew that Jack considered Max O’Hare a disease, infecting everyone around him with his drug issues, long criminal history, and his ability to land his friends in deep shit—Carter’s being in Kill a case in point. But Carter had owed Max big-time. Being in prison was simply squaring a debt, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
“No,” Jack soothed. “That’s not what I think at all—”
“Well, good,” Carter interrupted. “Because you have no idea what Max has been through, what he’s still going through. None.” He took a long pull on his smoke, staring at Jack over the burning embers.
“I know he’s your best friend,” Jack said after a moment of tense silence.
“Yeah,” Carter agreed with a sharp nod. “He is.”
And from what he’d heard from the guys who’d visited, Max needed him now more than ever.
* * *
Even when Kat Lane was asleep, the world around her was shadowed and oppressive, riddling her dreams with fear. Her small hands gripped the sheets, twisting in desperation. Her closed eyes clenched and her jaw tightened while her head pressed into the pillows beneath it. Her spine was rigid and her feet moved in her sleep as she found herself running, panicked and terrified, down a shadowed alley.
A sob rose from her throat, trapped in a never-ending slide show of the night that had happened almost sixteen years before. “Please,” she whimpered into the darkness.
But no one would come to save her from the five faceless men who chased her. She shot up into a sitting position with a scream, sweating and breathless. Her eyes darted around her pitch-black room before, realizing where she was, she closed them and cupped her hands to her face. She exhaled through a rough throat and brushed the tears away, trying to calm herself with slow, deep breaths.
She’d woken this way every day for the past two weeks, and the grief that hit her every time she opened her eyes was all too familiar. She shook her head, exhausted.
Her doctor had told her not to stop taking her sleeping pills all at once, but to lower the dose gradually. Kat had dismissed her advice, determined to make it through one night without the aid of chemicals. It seemed her determination was wasted. She beat her fist on the mattress in frustration, then flicked on the bedside table lamp. But the light didn’t ease the fear and utter helplessness her nightmares brought her.
With a defeated sigh, she got up and went toward her bathroom, flinching at the bright lights. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and frowned. Christ, she looked a lot older than twenty-four. Her face appeared drawn, her green eyes dull and lifeless. She traced the dark shadows under them, then ran her hand through her hair. Instead of being its usual voluminous chestnut red, it hung lank and dry past her shoulders.
Her mother had told her that she’d lost weight, but Kat had dismissed her words. She always had to comment on something.
Kat was in no way skinny—having always been more curvaceous than skin and bone—but her size-ten jeans had become a little loose recently.
She opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of sleeping pills. She desperately wished for the night when she wouldn’t have to rely on medicine to sleep. It wasn’t like the pills helped all that much anyway; they simply numbed a pain that would never disappear. After taking two blue capsules, she padded back across the bare wood floor to bed.
Kat had realized a long time ago that there was no sleep deep enough to escape her nightmares. They were ingrained, part of who she was, and she’d never be rid of them. She knew no pill or therapy would ever erase the darkness and grief within her. Subsequently, she’d grown into a woman who was fiery and strong-minded. It was a safe way of keeping other people at arm’s length, hiding her despair and fear behind a quick wit and sharp tongue.
She sank against her feather pillows. Would it ever get easier?
She didn’t know. All she could focus on was the fact that sunrise would mean a new day, another day away from her past.
