Sugar Rush

by Sawyer Bennett

  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."

  "Like fuck
it will," he spits out, his face now coloring red. "It's worth way more than that."

  "Yeah, on paper it is. But it seems to me there's value in me giving you money that will help save you from getting killed. I'd say The Sugar Bowl in return for that is more than fair compensation for your life, right?"

  "Beck...please...don't kick me out," he implores. "I don't have anything else."

  "Not my fucking problem," I say softly. "But I tell you what...because The Sugar Bowl is worth more, I'll make it five million. Pay off your debt, and if you're wise, that extra million will keep you in style until you can figure out your next great adventure. Just know it's not going to be with me at your side."

  JT doesn't respond, but just stares at me with wide, blinking eyes. His gaze is filled with pain, confusion, and even a little anger. But mostly, he looks lost. And this is what Sela and I had hoped for. That he wouldn't be able to reason out any better way out of this ordeal.

  Fishing to my pocket, I pull out my car key and turn from JT. I don't even spare him a backward glance but tell him in no uncertain terms. "If you want the money to make your three-day deadline, you need to let me know sooner rather than later. I'll need at least a day to move some funds around."

  "Beck," JT calls out to my retreating back, but I don't hesitate. I don't pause. I don't look at him again.

  The offer's been made.

  Now I just have to wait for him to pounce on it.

  I step out onto Mission Street, leaving the glass-and-stone building with redbrick walkways of Golden Gate University behind. The Millennium sits only two blocks away, but the bluish tint of the glass structure looks dull and faded as it reflects an overcast San Francisco day. There's a light mist falling, but it's relatively mild outside. Still, I pull my jacket collar up and quicken my pace toward our condo before it starts raining any harder.

  Hitching my backpack up higher on my shoulder, I pull it around to my front so I can grab my cell phone out of the outer pocket. I turn it on as I make my way home, wanting to see if Beck has left me an update while I was in class today. He went into the office this morning to handle a few things, then he was meeting with his attorney to draft a buyout agreement for JT to sign.

  If JT agreed to it, that is.

  When Beck left him yesterday at his house, he was broken, alone, and pondering how his world was crashing down. Beck and I, on the other hand, were considering what a crapshoot this whole endeavor was. Would JT take the five million offered? Or would he try to figure some other way out of this mess just so he could keep his foot in the door at The Sugar Bowl?

  My phone boots up and I don't see any new text messages awaiting, but there is a notification of a voice mail. Tapping the screen to pull it up, I peer at the phone number of whoever left the message. It's one I don't recognize, but figure maybe it's Beck calling from his attorney's office. Touching the Play icon, I put the phone to my ear and listen.

  "Sela...it's JT. Can you please give me a call? It's important."

  I'm stunned he's called me, and when I pull the phone back, I note he left the voice mail only about twenty minutes ago.

  I don't call him back right away, instead using the short walk to the condo to try to figure out what in the hell he could possibly want from me. JT knows I don't like him. He knows I think he's a misogynist asshole. He, in turn, doesn't like me because I'm a threat to his relationship with Beck.

  The doorman at the Millennium greets me by name and I give a return smile. I stare thoughtfully at my phone during the elevator ride up. Once inside, I dump my backpack on the couch and walk to our bedroom as I call JT.

  He answers on the second ring. "Thanks for calling me back so quickly, Sela."

  His voice is pleasant and polite, two things I bet he's struggling with mightily right now. "I was in class," I tell him. "My phone was turned off."

  "Right," he says, although I'm sure the fact I'm a student means nothing to him. He only sees me as a Sugar Baby. "So, I was wanting to talk to you about Beck and The Sugar Bowl."

  "What about it?" I ask vaguely, playing dumb as best I can.

  "I know he told you about his offer to me last night to buy me out, right?"

  I could lie to JT and deny it, but he wouldn't buy it. I can tell by the tone of his voice, and the mere fact he's reached out to me that he knows in his heart of hearts that Beck and I are solid. No matter what bull Beck may have been feeding him last week about putting the brakes on, JT calling me makes it clear he thinks I hold influence.

  And...if I can help this deal get pushed through, then even better.

  "Yeah...he told me you needed some money and that he'll give it to you in exchange for transfer of your ownership interest," I admit to him.

  "It's not a good deal for me," JT says adamantly. "But I think I have a better solution for all of us. It will give us both what we want."

  "What's that?" I ask, now intrigued about what scheme he's cooked up.

  "I'd like to sit down and discuss this with you in person. Go over my idea, which is a little complex. I want you to tell me what you think, and whether you think Beck would be receptive to it. I don't have a lot of time, given the deadline by which I need the money, so I was hoping we could meet now."

  I am free the rest of the day, but I'm not sure I should get involved. Beck laid down the ultimatum. It's up to JT to take it or turn it down. But then the part of me that worries that JT will make things messy for Beck and The Sugar Bowl feels compelled to hear him out. Perhaps help to talk some sense into him. Make him see the benefit of taking the money and getting out. Help to convince him that Beck won't back down on this and there's no room to negotiate.

  Of course, the one thing that I've truly got to consider is my hair color. I'd colored it back to as close to my natural state as I could get it, with the idea in mind I wouldn't be crossing paths with JT again. Will he recognize me now?

  My gut says he won't. That he's such a self-absorbed person that he wouldn't recognize my face. He's seen it plenty of times, no matter my hair color, and he hasn't shown the slightest bit of recollection.

  It would be a risk, no doubt. It could compromise everything.

  But I could help to put the nail in his coffin if I can convince him it's a fool's errand to try to get more out of Beck than what he's offered to him. Make him understand that he's in a precarious position and that it's well worth the trade-off...The Sugar Bowl for his life.

  I laugh inside. Little does he know that he may walk away with his life intact, but if I have anything to do with it, he'll be sitting behind bars with that precious life of his.

  "I could meet you somewhere," I say, throwing caution to the wind.

  JT gives a mirthless laugh into the phone. "Um...yeah...not sure how much Beck told you about my condition, but I can barely get off the couch. Can you come here...to my house?"

  I look around the bedroom, taking in the pale blue walls, teak colored furniture, and pristine white bedding. It's my favorite place in the condo because it's so peaceful and relaxing. This is my life now, with Beck, and I'll do whatever needs to be done to ensure I maintain it.

  Walking over to the nightstand on my side of the bed, I open the drawer. "Text me your address. I can be there in less than an hour."

  "Will do. And thank you, Sela," JT says, sounding immensely grateful to me.

  I disconnect, wondering what he has up his sleeve. I don't trust his polite but pitiful demeanor. He's absolutely lying when he says he has a plan that would benefit both him and Beck. Doesn't mean he doesn't have some sort of plan he wants to run by me, but I guarantee you it's all to his benefit alone.

  Which is why I'm going to his house to meet with him. I need to know what he's up to so our plans don't get derailed.

  Reaching into my drawer, I pull out my gun.

  I'm not scared of JT, but I'm damn well making sure I'm protected in case he recognizes me and things go bad.

  Walking into the closet, I grab a medium-size black satchel purse and stow the
gun in there. I consider for just a crazy moment calling Beck and telling him what's going on, but then I immediately discount it just as quickly. He'll forbid me from going, and he'd be right to do so. I'd in turn get affronted by his attempts to control me and prevent me from helping. It will lead to an epic argument, with me not heeding his advice and heading to JT's house anyway. That would also lead to Beck leaving his attorney's office and trying to cut me off at JT's house. It would be an ugly scene, so I choose not to tell Beck what is going on.

  But I do want to call someone else and fill them in on some of the details of what's been going on in my life.

  Someone who deserves to know what's happening.

  I use the bathroom and wash my hands. Then I transfer my wallet and keys from my backpack to the black purse and head to the parking garage. This will be only the third time I've driven my new car from Beck. There's no need living here in the city, but we did go out on Christmas day for a little drive to Half Moon Bay, and then again yesterday we drove it to my apartment in Oakland, where I gathered the last of my possessions I had stored there, and closed that door on my life for good.

  After I get into the car and pull out of the parking garage, I depress the phone button on the steering wheel. This pairs my phone with the Bluetooth and offers me voice activation.

  "Call Dad's cell phone," I say.

  A woman's voice, cultured and polished, says, "Calling Dad's cell phone."

  A few clicks and then it's ringing. He answers like only a father should. "What's up, baby girl?"

  I smile. He's my dad, he's great, and I love him.

  But I haven't been fair to him either.

  "Hey...you got a few minutes to talk?" I ask softly, feeling slightly weird by talking to him through the car's speakers.

  "Always for you. What's up?"

  "I need to tell you something," I say carefully, trying to keep a lighthearted tone. "It's going to throw you for a loop, but I need you to listen and then you can berate me for keeping it from you and give me sage advice."

  "You didn't run off and join the circus did you?" he quips.