Sugar Rush (19 page)

“Is that normal?” Beck asks.

Dennis shrugs. “I think in this case, and with him doubling down that type of money, it was made clear to JT when he placed the bet that they expected immediate payment if he lost.”

“And what if he doesn't pay?” I sit forward on the couch a bit, eager to hear this next part.

“I expect they'll impress upon him the urgency of paying,” Dennis says ominously, and I'm sort of surprised he doesn't rub his hands together with glee while giving an evil
mwah-ha-ha-ha-haaa
laugh.

Hell, I want to laugh like that at the prospect of JT getting beaten up for failure to pay his debts. It's almost as good a fantasy as when I imagine him in prison getting his ass raped by some beefy dude who will make him his bitch.

As if he can read my thoughts, Dennis says, “It will hurt, Sela. Trust me.”

“Think they'll videotape it for me?” I ask with a grin.

Dennis and Beck both laugh, and I realize that all the tension we were all feeling just five minutes ago has left the room. We're now almost delirious with excitement over how the plan will progress next.

“I just hope the ass whupping is enough to impress upon him the dire situation he's put himself in. He's got to be desperate when he comes to me,” Beck says.

“He will be,” I say confidently, my hand going to the back of Beck's neck, which I squeeze slightly for reassurance. I'm feeling good about this now. Really good.

“Listen…I went ahead and pulled the investigative file of your rape from Santa Clara,” Dennis says to me in an abrupt change of subject. My eyes slide from Beck to his. “They did a pretty good job from what I could tell. Scoured cab companies; interviewed people at the mall who may have seen you and the other boys who gave you the ride. But as you know, they didn't get any solid leads.”

I nod, because this isn't news to me. While my parents kept me shielded from actually dealing with the lead criminal investigator, they did keep me updated. Ultimately, the failure to find who did it caused me to tailspin and landed me in the hospital again. It was my second admission because of JT.

“I also wanted to see if there was anything in there that maybe they missed,” Dennis adds.

“I assume there wasn't,” Beck surmises. Because otherwise he would have told us the minute he arrived tonight.

“Nothing I could see they failed to do,” Dennis says. “But I did see something that was interesting. I couldn't find any paperwork where the DNA lab that ran the semen sample submitted the results to NDIS.”

“NDIS?” I ask in confusion.

“The National DNA Index System,” Dennis tells me. “It's part of the FBI Combined DNA Index System database that all law-enforcement agencies in the nation submit DNA results to. It should have been done in your case.”

“But it wouldn't have helped anything,” Beck points out. “JT's never been arrested, so he wouldn't be in the system.”

“True,” Dennis agrees. “But I still reached out to the lab to see about getting a copy of the paperwork. That way we'll have a complete copy of the file. Just making sure all the t's are crossed and i's dotted so when you report JT, you know exactly what the police know.”

“Thank you,” I say softly while looking at Dennis. “I'm just so grateful for what you've done for me. I don't even know how to show you how much it means.”

Dennis' face flushes red and he ducks his head to take another sip of his drink. He mumbles, “Well…you're a sweet girl. I want that fucker to pay.”

Beck shoots me a smile and I can see he's equally as touched that Dennis seems to go above and beyond for us. And because he seems loose and relaxed, and even like…a friend, and because I'm also buzzed, I ask him teasingly, “So how do you know so much about the seedy underworld? Bookies, and taking dives and bribes. You seem so normal and…I don't know…like too suave to know about that stuff.”

He doesn't answer right away, but stares reflectively into his glass. Then he tilts it to his mouth and drains it, and I know he's got to be feeling the effects by now. When his gaze lifts back up to mine, I'm taken aback to see them flooded with pain and anger. “I was very much a part of that world for a while. Married into it, actually.”

“Oh,” I say on a small gasp, not shocked by his revelation because he wears a wedding ring, but by the anguish I still see on his face. And although I know it's nosy, I can't help but try to appease my curiosity, since he's opened the door and become infinitely more interesting to me than he was just five seconds ago. “Is her family mob or something?”

“Close enough,” Dennis says, and starts to lift his glass again to his mouth before realizing it's empty. He frowns and stands. “I'm going to get another drink. Want one?”

Beck shakes his head and Dennis turns to the kitchen, but I continue to pry, because just…wow. Dennis married into the mob?

“You should have brought your wife tonight,” I say impulsively. Because I like Dennis and I'm betting I'd like his wife too. I know Beck likes Dennis…they've formed an easy friendship these last few weeks. I mean…maybe we could all double-date or something.

“She's dead,” Dennis says softly, and his eyes actually shimmer with kindness over my suggestion. “Three years ago.”

“Oh God,” I say, my hand coming to my chest, where I rub at the dull ache that's appeared. “I'm so sorry. That was so insensitive of me—”

Dennis holds his hand up to cut me off, even as Beck's hand goes to my lower back to soothe me. “It's fine, but I suppose this is relevant to why I'm helping you. She was killed as a vendetta against her father. It's a dangerous life and she suffered for it.”

“You suffered for it,” I whisper.

Dennis nods with a sad smile. “Yeah…I did. Lost the most precious thing in my life. The only way out of that life is through death, and when Rosa was killed, it released me from the family as well. But I still have contacts and ties that I used to help you. I also understand vengeance and the need for justice.”

“Was her killer brought to justice?” I ask, because I have to know. “Is he in jail?”

“No,” Dennis says, even though light shines from his eyes. A light that shimmers and sparkles with satisfaction and pleasure. “He's not in jail, but justice was served.”

A tiny shiver runs up my spine over his words as I understand their meaning. I nod at him in solidarity, because now I know that Dennis and I share something very much in common. We both believe that death is an appropriate sentence for someone that would dare to hurt either of us. While that might not be my ultimate goal anymore, it's nice to know that I'm not the only one who fantasizes about murder as the best means of retribution.

As much as I care for Beck and know how much he feels for me, I know now that Dennis is probably the only one who would truly understand what my initial motivations were, and how hard it was for me to give up that quest to kill JT so that I could have peace.

I knew it would happen sometime soon, but just not this soon. Sunday afternoon, less than sixteen hours after VanZant lost to Mariota, JT called me.

From the hospital. Sela and I were actually cleaning up the condo and putting the Christmas decorations away. When I saw JT's name on my caller ID, I didn't think that he'd be calling me about the money he owed. It was too soon for anything major to happen, but I was instantly alerted to what this was really all about when he said in a rough but weakened voice, “Beck…I'm at Marin General in Greenbrae. I need you to come get me.”

“What happened?” I asked with as much fake concern as I could muster.

“Not now…just come get me. They won't release me until someone can drive me home.”

“I'm leaving now,” I told him, then hung up the phone.

Sela had been on the living room floor, looking as lovely as she ever has in a pair of worn sweatpants and a tattered T-shirt; no makeup and hair in a messy ponytail. She stared at me with knowing eyes.

“JT's in the hospital over in Greenbrae,” was all I said.

“Holy shit,” she murmured in amazement, because like me, she didn't think it would happen that fast.

“This is it,” I told her, and she grinned back at me.

Marin General sits only seventeen or so miles from my condo, but it takes me almost forty minutes to make the drive, given the slow Sunday traffic in the city and across the Golden Gate. At the information desk, I'm directed back to the emergency bay, where I find JT sitting on a hospital bed in a curtained room.

And while I knew that JT was going to be getting a message from the people who wanted their money, I wasn't prepared for what he would look like after that message was delivered. His face is swollen, almost beyond recognition. Eyes puffed up, not quite closed but ringed with dark blue and purple streaks of bruising. A cut slices diagonally across one cheek and is sutured with several stitches. His lower lip is split in two places and there's a dark bruise along his right jawline. His left lower arm is in a cast, and the fingers peeking out are swollen and purple.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as I take it all in, completely aghast at what he looks like. Not that I care he was hurt, but it's just shocking to see someone that beat up.

JT looks at me through pained eyes, the whites of which are now red from what I assume are burst blood vessels. “I look that bad?” he asks, his voice lisping with what could potentially be a split and swollen tongue the way he sounds.

“What in the fuck happened to you?” I ask with mock disbelief, even though I know damn well what happened to him.

JT stands from the bed, the back of his hospital gown flopping open. He moves like a ninety-year-old man and winces with every movement. His hand reaches out, points over to a chair where his clothes lie, and says, “Just let me get dressed and get me out of here. I'll tell you all about it when you get me home.”

I don't argue with him, but hand him his clothes, carefully watching as every grimace and flash of pain plays across his face, and relishing in it. I thought I might have an ounce of compassion in me for anyone who's clearly hurting that badly, but it's not there. Not when I'm filled with the knowledge of Sela's pain and misery caused by his hands. On the contrary, it makes me almost giddy with happiness knowing he's hurting right now.

The release process is smooth as all the paperwork had been done. It was advised he be admitted for observation, but he declined, and after the necessary waivers were completed, the only thing they were insisting on was he have a ride home either by cab or by friend or family member. He called me, which means he wants to discuss money now.

Sela and I had been talking about this for days, and the best way to approach JT with a buyout when he asks for the money. I hope to God I stick to the script we created, which we felt was the best way to “handle” JT, and that this goes as smoothly as I hope. But for now, I silently wait him out as a nurse pushes him out in a wheelchair. I get my car, pull it up to the front, and JT is loaded into the front seat. We don't say a word during the short drive to his house in Sausalito, and he's utterly silent when we walk into the house.

I follow JT into his den, an ostentatious room filled with expensive leather furniture, two seventy-inch TVs, and a surround-sound system that cost a small fortune. He bypasses the couch and heads to the mahogany bar against one wall. Pulling out a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid, he pours almost a full glass. Without looking at me, he asks, “Want one?”

“No, man,” I say quietly, trying to lace my voice with concern. “But I would like to know what happened to you. Were you in an accident?”

JT's shoulders jerk as he barks out a laugh, and then groans from the pain that movement caused. He takes a hefty swallow and hisses through his teeth after it goes down.

“You shouldn't drink if you're taking pain meds,” I say, not out of any concern for him but because I want him lucid.

“I didn't take any pain meds,” he grunts, and takes another slug. “I need a clear head.”

Well, that makes two of us who need that.

“So what happened?” I prompt as he turns from the bar and walks over to one of the big couches that flank a large fireplace. The leather is buttery and the cushions are deep. He sinks into it slowly with a groan.

JT takes another sip, swallows it, and raises his bloodred eyes to me. “I'm in trouble.”

So much trouble,
I mentally agree. But I just raise my eyebrows in friendly worry.

“I got in deep with a bookie in Vegas. His enforcers paid me a visit this morning. That's why I look and feel like shit.”

Here was part of what I had rehearsed with Sela. The need to be shocked by JT's revelation he could be in so deep. So I downplay any danger off the bat. “Well, what the fuck JT,” I say with exasperation. “Pay the damn money. It's not like you don't have it.”

“I don't,” he says, takes another sip of bourbon. I can tell it's working on him because he starts to relax his body into the couch. “Have the type of money they're collecting, that is.”

“What type of money are we talking about?” I ask hesitantly…my eyes wide with curiosity.

“Four million,” he spits out, as if he can feel the bitterness of his debt on his tongue.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I explode, my jaw hanging wide at him in disbelief. “You've got to be fucking kidding me, JT, right?”

And the Oscar for this year's performance goes to…Beck North.

JT shakes his head and grimaces. “I wish I was kidding.”

“What in the hell could you have bet four million dollars on?” I ask incredulously.

“The Mariota-VanZant fight.”

Here I don't act surprised. JT knows me well enough to know I follow most all sports. He knows I'd know what that was. So I simply say, “You bet on VanZant.”

“I was so sure he had what it takes,” JT says in the frustrated voice of a gambler who just can't believe his luck has run out.

“Four million fucking dollars on a fucking fight, JT?” I grit out, letting a little bit of anger slip through. “Are you crazy to lay that type of money down on one fight?”

“It wasn't just one fight,” he mutters.

“Explain,” I demand. But I already know the story.

I made a bet…got two million in debt. Doubled down on VanZant. Figured it was a sure thing.

Yeah, that's what JT tells me, and I let me eyes flare wide in disbelief over his idiocy. Scrubbing my hand through my hair, I start pacing in front of him, acting the wigged-out, worried friend. “Well, pay the damn money. You owe it, pay it. It's better than getting the crap beat out of you.”

“I don't have it,” he whines, and I have to literally lock my legs to prevent myself from lunging at him. That “poor me” voice threatens to undo my resolve to lead JT along in my sinister plan.

“How can you not have it?” I ask in a measured voice.

He shrugs like a petulant child. “Come on, Beck. You know me. I'm irresponsible. I spend my money like it grows on trees. Anything solid is tied up in this house with no equity. The rest goes to fuel my expensive tastes. I could scrape up a million from some mutual funds; maybe two…but that's it, and it would take longer than what they've given me to liquidate. I'm tapped and strapped.”

“How long do you have to pay it?” Because I'm dying to know what type of deadline they placed on him. That will tell me the date by which I'm hoping to have JT out of my life for good.

“Three days,” he says, looking at me with pleading eyes. “I need you to loan it to me.”

And here is where my real acting skills come in to play. Here is where I lay out the carefully scripted and rehearsed speech that truly doesn't take much acting at all if I let my real emotions come into play. And they do, because this fuckup is the biggest fuckup of his life, and JT knows my patience with him has been stretched thin over the past months with his poor choices and childish behavior.

I hold my hands up and take two steps back. “No way, JT. I am not bailing you out of this. I'm sure you can scrape up the money.”

JT leans forward on the couch and winces while his knuckles turn white due to the death grip he has on his glass. “Beck…I'm telling you. I don't have it.”

“Then get it from somewhere else,” I snarl at him. “I'm not bailing your ass out. I've been telling you I'm sick of this shit, JT. You promised you were going on the straight and narrow and you lied to me.”

“There's nowhere else for me to turn,” JT says, and I swear I see a shimmer of tears in his eyes. “And Beck…they're not going to beat me up for the money. It's either a pay or don't type of situation.”

“Meaning?” I ask with a tinge of fear in my voice for my “friend,” whom I'm pissed as hell at but also appearing to still be worried about.

“They'll kill me. If they don't get their money, they'll kill me. Plain and simple.”

“Goddamn,” I shout out at the room as I spin away from him. Do another dramatic scrub of my hands through my hair. Turn to face JT, shoot him an accusatory look, and growl at him, “You goddamn motherfucking idiot, JT.”

“I know,” he says as he rises from the couch gingerly. He takes a step toward me. “I know, and I know I promised you I'd get things under control. But I was so sure this bet would get me out of trouble, and then I was going to shape my shit up. I promise this was the last stupid thing I'll do. I swear it.”

I round on JT with fury etched all over my face. “I'm so sick of your lies, JT. Sick of living with this shadow over our business. You're a selfish asshole who cares for no one but yourself.”

“I know, I know,” he chants.

Taking in a deep breath, I lower my gaze and stare at the floor. I pretend to ponder his situation. I appear to be conflicted. Not once do I let go of the anger on my face so he never forgets that this is the most monumental fuckup he's made in our business and personal relationship.

Letting the air out of my lungs slowly, I take a step toward him, lean my head closer, and in a very soft but deadly serious voice, I tell him, “I'll give you the money—”

“Oh, man…thank you so much,” he cuts in, but I hold my hand up. His mouth snaps shut.

“I'll give you the money, but it's not a loan and it's not a gift.”

“What do you mean?” he asks carefully, and I notice his hand holding the half-empty tumbler of bourbon is shaking.

“It means I'll give you the four million, but consider it a buyout from The Sugar Bowl. I want you out. I'm done with you.”

JT's skin pales and his eyes go wide in disbelief. “No,” he whispers.

“Yes,” I maintain through gritted teeth. “I want you out of my life, JT. You're nothing but a cancer to me. The four million will save your hide and compensate you for your share of the business.”