An Ounce of Hope(17)

"Thanks, Carter," Max said before he could even recognize the need to say the words of gratitude.

Seated in the visitors' room with the winter sun streaming through the tall windows, the words reverberated around him. Carter, who'd been chatting amiably with Elliot, turned. He opened his mouth to speak, but Max continued, muttering toward the cup of coffee in his hands. "And I'm sorry for everything I put you through, you and Kat-I know you two argued a lot about me, and for that I apologize. I'm sorry for what my addiction put you through and I thank you for being there and not giving up on me. It would have been so easy, but you didn't." 

He lifted his head slowly, noticing first the wide smile on Elliot's face. Bastard looked like a proud father seeing his son take his first steps. Almost the literal truth, the words pushed Max stumbling into new territory.

The expression on Carter's face was surprised yet warm, while his eyes suddenly looked a little glassy. He dipped his chin and cleared his throat. "No problem. I've got your back."

Yeah, he always had, and words could never convey how much Max appreciated it.

After a couple of hours during which Carter finally met Tate, fussed over Max's paintings, and saw the rest of the place, Max walked Carter back to his car, feeling lighter, less anxious.

Carter pressed the key fob, making the blinkers of the Maserati flash. "You know," he started, with a deep breath, "when you decide you're ready to come home, you're more than welcome to stay with Kat and me." His words were quick, almost falling over one another. "You could stay with us at the beach house in the Hamptons, away from the city. You could relax, take it slowly. Riley has the body shop under control. The place is back in the black and busy, so you don't need to rush back there until you're ready." He lifted his shoulders. "Staying with us might be better than going back to your empty apartment. At least you wouldn't be alone all the time."

Max smiled gently, curious as to whether Kat had had any say in Carter's offer, or if she even knew of it. "I appreciate that. It sounds good."

Carter smiled. "Well, the offer's there, bud. You let me know."

Max nodded and stepped back as Carter opened his car door and got in. The V-8 engine thundered to life, making the two men sigh with appreciation and lust.

"I'll be driving this baby when I get back," Max taunted as Carter shut the car door and rolled down the window.

"In your wettest and wildest, my friend," Carter retorted, pressing his foot to the gas, making the car purr. Max's laugh was halted by Carter's next words: "I know you can do this, Max." His face was honest and hopeful. "I know it's been strange today and I'm sorry. You have a long way to go, shit to get through about Lizzie and . . . but I know you'll do it. I fucking know it."

Max gripped Carter's shoulder through the car window and squeezed. "Thank you, brother."





The apartment was dark when Max staggered through the front door, cursing as his shin smacked into the fucking coffee table that Lizzie had been more than insistent on buying when they first moved in. It was the feature of the room, apparently. Now it just created bruises.

He mumbled to himself about being quiet, chuckling as the buzz of his last few lines lit his veins, making his skin warm and his brain pulse. It had been a crazy night filled with strobe lights, powder, and dancing. The scent of sweat permeated his shirt while the hair on the nape of his neck clung to his skin in soaked clumps. The side of his face throbbed from his chin to his eye socket where some asshole had punched him at the bar. Max had made a jibe about the dude's jacket, and then, when the guy didn't retaliate, Max had commented on the prick's girlfriend. And then-because it was a day ending in y, and Max wanted a fight and a rush of adrenaline to combat the emptiness that spread through his body like the cancer that killed his father-he'd brought up the guy's mother, whom Max didn't know but didn't hesitate to call a complete whore.




 

 

There was dried blood on Max's shirtsleeve. Oh, yeah. His nose got busted, too, before his friend Paul had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him into a waiting cab just as the night was filled with police sirens and blue flashing lights.

Max sniffed and wiped at his nostrils drunkenly. His nose hurt but as long as he could still breathe through it, he'd lose himself in as much blow as he could if it meant the pain of living would disappear. Fuck, he just wanted to be numb. He wanted to forget. He wanted to pretend that instead of the broken woman he knew he would find in his bed, he'd find the feisty, sparkling creature he'd fallen in love with. Instead of the shut door that concealed all the baby shit they'd bought that neither of them could bear to look at, he wanted to find it wide open, his son healthy and asleep in the white crib . . .