An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)

by Sophie Jackson

  Christopher died at the beginning of Lizzie’s third trimester.

  At almost seven months pregnant, after Lizzie hadn’t felt Christopher move or kick for three days, her labor was induced and Max sat at her side while she gave birth to their lifeless son. Lizzie howled. Literally, howled in agony, like an animal. Jesus, he’d never forget that sound for as long as he lived. The grief of Christopher’s loss damn near broke her in half. Max had tried to be strong, tried to hold her and tell her it would be okay, but he knew it wouldn’t, couldn’t. That day something between them, something monumental and vital to their relationship, died, too.

  That was the second time Max had thought about taking his own life. The moment he held his minute baby son in his arms—the most exquisite thing he’d ever laid eyes on, eyes closed as though he were simply asleep—he knew that heaven must be the most perfect place, filled with creatures as beautiful as Christopher, a place he’d much rather be.

  Lizzie hadn’t been able to face seeing the baby. She’d sobbed and screamed until the doctor gave her a sedative to sleep. Despite her eyes opening a day later, Max knew, deep in the cracks of his shattered heart, that she hadn’t truly awoken. She was lost to him, too. From that moment, she no longer lived but existed, and Max’s sorrow began to overwhelm him.

  The funeral was excruciating, another headstone bearing the O’Hare name. The following weeks were worse. For the first time since the night he’d laid eyes on Lizzie, Max threw himself back into the warm and loving arms of his beloved white powder. With Carter in Arthur Kill prison and his friends keeping a distance from Max’s volatile, high, or drunk temper, he’d never felt more alone, more lost. Until one particular morning.

  That brought Max to the third time he’d wanted to end it all: the morning he woke to find Lizzie gone.

  “How did you feel when you realized she wasn’t coming back?” Elliot asked.

  Max held the most obvious, curse-riddled remark back and pulled his hood closer around his head. “Confused. Angry. Alone . . . Relieved.”

  Elliot’s face didn’t change. “Explain relieved to me.”

  Max closed his eyes, remembering the vacant, grieving, deathly face of the woman he’d loved so fiercely. “I was relieved because I knew I wasn’t helping her,” he admitted, quietly surprised at the confession. “I was relieved because she took the initiative and left the ruins of us.”

  “But she left you.”

  Max scoffed. “With the drinking and coke I was doing again? I’d have left, too.”

  Elliot wrote. “And looking back, thinking about your painting, do you think she made the right choice?”

  “I’ll never forgive her for walking away without a word,” Max spat. “That’s what kills me. I earned more than her silence. I was worth more. Okay, leave, but we’d been through too much together for her to leave without a good-bye or a fuck-you. We made a child together, for fuck’s sake; we were engaged!” Fury rose through Max’s body, lighting his blood with disappointment and heartache. “She slunk away like a coward, like she was the only one who hurt, who cried, who missed our son. It was fucking selfish.” He sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, tears scratching at the back of his throat. “But if she got better, moved on after we lost Christopher . . . She made the right choice for her.”

  Elliot was quiet for so long, Max lifted his head to check whether his therapist was still breathing. He was. “Monday,” he murmured. “I’m booking you in with the facility trainer for your first gym session.”

  Max blinked in surprise. “Okay.”

  Tate stood behind Max, chewing on the licorice whip Max had shared. “Man,” he exclaimed with a satisfied groan. “These things are like fucking crack.” He clapped Max’s shoulder. “No disrespect.”

  Max laughed and chewed his own licorice.

  “I mean, I haven’t had any since I was a kid. And even then Riley would steal them and hide them away.” He sighed heavily. “Truthfully, I don’t even know why I still speak to him.”

  Max looked up at his art therapist and grinned at his choice of T-shirt, which stated, “No pants are the best pants,” and wondered what seeing the two Moore brothers together would actually be like. In fact, if he remembered correctly, he was pretty sure there were four brothers; he’d met the youngest, Seb, a couple of times. Regardless, Max was certain chaos would ensue.

  “I got Dr Pepper, too,” he said, waving his red whip. “Carter’s a legend.”

  “Not too shabby,” Tate agreed. “He just sent you a care package?”

  “And he’s coming to visit in the new year.” Of course, Max was excited about Carter’s visit, but admittedly nervous as hell.

  The unexpected but awesome box of sugary delights had arrived the day before, wrapped in Christmas paper with a card from Carter and Kat and signed by all the boys at the body shop—including Riley—wishing him well and a merry Christmas. For a couple of moments it had made Max feel terrific, feel wanted and cared for, but then he’d remembered he was miles away from them all and how much he missed being at home with his friends. The mood swings and claws of anxiety were never far away, no matter how much better he felt. Nevertheless, he’d certainly made a few new friends with the red licorice. And the M&M’s.

  “So,” Tate sang nonchalantly. “Word on the corridor is that you’ll be hitting the gym on Monday. Nice.”

  Max agreed. He couldn’t wait to take some latent anger out on some unsuspecting piece of gym equipment.

  “I like what you’re doing here,” Tate added, gesturing to the swirl of soft brown against the black background of Max’s second painting. His first was complete and sat in his room in all its terrifying, angry glory. Finishing it didn’t curb the underlying anger inside him but, instead, awoke a dormant urge to paint more. It was still early days, but Max was starting to express himself, just as Elliot had asked. And it felt good. Satisfying. Almost as though each brushstroke was quelling some silent hunger inside of him. He was under no illusions; he knew he was purging, all but vomiting his vitriol, addiction, and sorrow onto the canvas—the raw emotion of his first picture was testament to that—but that was okay. If it kept the doctors and staff off his back and the panic attacks at bay, he was more than willing to keep painting.

  Tate chewed noisily on his licorice. “The contrast between the colors is nice. What does it mean?”

  Max cocked his head, regarding his work. All he knew was that, after his talk with Elliot about Lizzie leaving, he had to get back into the art room and paint . . . something. “Not a clue, dude,” he answered, following the diagonal streaks of orange and red with his eyes. He smirked. “You know you shouldn’t ask stupid questions.”

  Tate grinned. “I know. I was just messing with you.” He turned with his licorice still hanging from his mouth and approached another painter. Max smiled after him. If nothing else, at least Tate kept him entertained.

  Max should have known that the easy, lighter sensation that had burrowed within him somewhere along the line of group meetings, talking to Elliot, and painting wouldn’t last. The Christmas decorations and luscious food, cheerful music, and presents of socks and chocolate the facility provided caused Max to enjoy the festive period for the first time in years, despite being away from home and familiar faces.

  Too bad the warm, let’s-love-baby-Jesus fuzzies hadn’t stuck around.

  Oh, Max O’Hare was, and always had been, a pessimistic bastard on an almost unhealthy scale. And yet, as the days had turned into weeks of his stay in rehab, he’d allowed himself to consider the possibility that he was getting better, that his thoughts were no longer dictated by rage or anguish, and that what had been the regular tap-tapping of addiction in his mind every hour of every day had slowly become a light caress.

  Yeah, he’d been a fucking fool.

  And the way Elliot was looking at him, that patronizing concerned way of his, was not what he needed in his current mood. But that was what was really pissing him off. He couldn’t understand
what had him so out of shape, so antsy. He’d battered seven shades of shit out of the gym equipment—earning apprehensive glances from his trainer—and had run on the treadmill until he’d almost collapsed, but the agitation still prickled his skin like nettles.

  “You made a phone call this afternoon,” Elliot started, gazing at him over the rim of his Phillies mug as he took a sip. “Who did you speak to?”

  Max slumped in his seat and drew a large breath. “Carter.”

  Elliot smiled. “Great. How is he?”

  Max’s molars ground together. “Engaged.” The word shot from him like a bullet from a gun, smothered in hurt, jealousy, and anger. “He’s . . . he’s fucking engaged.” He rubbed his hands down his face¸ hating the word and hating himself for being such a selfish prick.

  The sound of Elliot’s mug being placed back onto the side table ricocheted through Max’s brain. His tired, addled brain. Fuck. For the first time in four weeks, Max craved a line.

  He craved three.

  And a bottle of Patrón held by a woman with long legs, great tits, and no morals.

  Yeah, he could seriously go for a hot, sweaty, coke-induced fuck to clear his mind.

  “You’re angry.” Elliot didn’t pose the question but implied it in the small lift of his hand.

  “Yeah,” Max barked back without a thought. “No. Goddammit, I don’t know what to feel.”

  Honestly, his head was a cacophony of fucked-up.

  He stood from his seat and paced toward the window, which overlooked the vast gardens of the center. The snow was thick and glittered in the afternoon sun. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the frigid glass. The conversation with Carter had been fine. He’d managed to hide his shock and unacceptable anger at Carter’s news. He’d thanked him for the box of treats and they’d shot the shit and joked about Riley’s planning of the bachelor party, but it was strained. At least on Max’s side.

  “I don’t know why I feel so—I can’t even describe it.” It was like a coiled wire around his insides pulling tighter and tighter.

  “I understand.”

  Max turned to his therapist. “You do?”

  “Of course. He’s your best friend. There’s history there. You’ve seen each other through the hardest parts of your lives and now you’re here. His life is moving forward and you feel stagnant.”

  Max blinked. Well, shit.

  “But you’re not stagnant, Max,” Elliot urged. “The changes I’ve seen in you in the past couple of weeks have been remarkable. You’re opening up.”

  Max pushed his hands into his pockets. “It doesn’t feel that way.” With a sigh, he meandered back to his chair and sat down, heavy and weary. He fidgeted under Elliot’s unrelenting silence, and tried to hide under his hood. “I want Carter to be happy,” he said finally, picking at the cuticle around his thumbnail. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.”

  “Who is he marrying?”

  “Kat. They met when he was inside Kill. It’s a long story but they also have a lot of history. Saved her life when he was, like, eleven.” He laughed without humor. “He’s crazy about her, totally fuckin’ gaga.”

  “Like you were with Lizzie.”

  Max flinched, although the pain he was so used to had numbed considerably. “Yeah, just like that.”

  Elliot shifted in his seat. “And this is the problem.”

  “Maybe,” Max confessed quietly.

  Maybe he was envious that his best friend had found what Max had been so desperate to have. Maybe he was angry that Carter was living his life while he was stuck in East Bumfuck nowhere. Maybe he was a shithead for thinking anything other than congratulations for the man who had always had his back.

  “I don’t want my past to excuse my resentment. It’s shameful,” he murmured.

  “But you need to handle it instead of pushing it away,” Elliot replied. “Deal with the jealousy and move on. When you get home, you can celebrate with him, enjoy his happiness; things will feel different, better.”

  Max wasn’t so sure, but he could hope.

  “Besides,” Elliot added brightly, “you’re young; you could meet someone, fall in love again.”

  Max’s eyes widened while his heart galloped and pounded behind his ribs. “No way,” he hissed.

  Elliot shrugged, nonplussed. “Why? Life moves on, Max, as Carter is showing. You, too, can have love and joy again.”

  Max shook his head firmly. “Fuck that. I’m never giving myself to someone like that again. Ever.”

  It’d kill him for certain.

  Besides, all addicts were discouraged from getting involved in romantic relationships in the first twelve months of their recovery. Relationships were too unpredictable and the ups and downs were potential triggers for hitting a luscious Baggie of white powder or a large bottle of Jack. Not that Max could contemplate having a serious relationship ever again. His interactions with women prior to his admittance were fleeting and emotionless. He was a red-blooded male with needs, after all, and his merry-go-round of eager ass was exactly what he needed: detached and simple.

  Elliot regarded him thoughtfully before dipping his chin in acknowledgment. “Maybe that’s a conversation for another day.”

  Placing his legal pad on the arm of his chair, he stood and crossed the office toward his elegant bespoke desk. “I have something for you.” He opened a drawer, retrieving something from inside. He held out his hand. “Here.”

  Max lifted from his seat on drowsy legs and approached his therapist. “What?”

  Elliot reached for Max’s wrist and placed a small round piece of metal into his palm. It took Max a moment to recognize what it was. “It’s your first chip, Max. Congratulations. Thirty days clean and counting.”

  Max stared at the unassuming medallion, punctuated by the “1 Month” in the center and surrounded by words he knew by heart from group: “freedom, goodwill, self, God, society, service.”

  Jesus, had it really been thirty days since he’d been admitted?

  “Thirty-three, actually,” Elliot said, as though reading Max’s thoughts. Slowly, he placed his hand over Max’s, curling their fingers around the chip. His expression was not one of a doctor, but of a friend, kind and reassuring. “With the new year only days away, let this, your determination and strength, prove that happily-ever-afters are achievable, Max. This, right here, is a symbol of hope. It can happen. Even for you.”

  Max knew the sentiment should have made him all warm and cozy inside, should have backhanded the fear and pessimism out of his head, from around his bruised and scarred heart, and although he was quietly proud that he held his month of struggle away from his friends and all he knew in his palm, he stubbornly shook his head.

  “Thank you, but happily-ever-afters don’t exist for me, Doc,” he said quietly, lifting his head to meet Elliot’s stare. “With all the people I’ve lost in my life, I know that’s the real fuckin’ truth.”

  The bar Grace walked into was not what she expected.

  Large windows and a glass door leading out to the back of the place, which would no doubt be incredible in the summer, illuminated the entire space. A fifties-style jukebox played blues, while the pool table and tables and booths of various shapes and sizes filled the rest of the high-ceilinged building. The scent of fries and draft beer clung to every inch of the place, bringing a nostalgic smile to Grace’s face.

  From the front, the place couldn’t look less inviting with its dark wood paneling and faded sign declaring the name to be WHISKEY AND WINGS. During his visit, as they’d strolled past on their way to dinner, Kai had commented about the types of regulars a bar such as Whiskey and Wings would attract, and dragged her away by her elbow before she could do something else crazy.

  Not to be discouraged, and determined to take control of her life for the first time in years, Grace had decided to embrace the interest in her gut and inquire about the help-wanted sign stuck haphazardly in the corner of the large, grubby window. It had
been a while since she’d tended bar, but she’d enjoyed the laughs and the hustle and bustle, even though the job had led her to meet—

  “Can I help you, honey?” The West Virginia drawl of the question curled around Grace like a warm hug.

  The woman wiping glasses behind the bar was blonde, with a chest that would have every other female in the vicinity standing a little straighter and begging for the number of the store where she’d purchased her push-up. Her lined face was attractive in spite of the heavy-handed mascara and blush. She smiled as Grace approached, and put the glass down.

  Grace took a deep breath and removed her woollen hat, her curls bouncing from its clutches. “Hi. I’d like to inquire about the sign.”

  Blondie leaned the heels of her hands on the edge of the bar and blinked.

  Grace swallowed. “The sign asking for help. What are the hours? I only need a couple of shifts a week, but—”

  “You’re new around here, right?” Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally. Grace was getting used to the suspicious glances and questions expected in a town with a population fewer than ten thousand.

  “Yeah. I’m staying at Masen’s Boardinghouse,” she answered. “I’ve been in town for—”

  “You worked a bar before?”

  “Um, yes. It’s been a while, but I tended when I was in college and my brother owns a bar in DC, which—”

  “Be here on Monday, six thirty sharp.”

  Grace blanched. “That’s— Monday is New Year’s Eve.”

  Blink. “You got plans?”

  No, but common sense knew that the place would be jammed. Filled with strangers.

  Anxiety whispered over Grace’s chest. “I . . . no, that’s fine.”

  “Good. I don’t know what shifts I’ll need you for after that, maybe every other day or night, maybe not, I need you to be flexible, but I sure as hell will need you Monday.” Deep blue eyes traveled down Grace’s body, taking in her winter boots, jeans, gloves, and thick jacket with a wry smile. “And wear something pretty.”

  Grace looked down at herself. “Okay.”