Page 30 of Sugar Rush (Sugar Bowl 2)

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."

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