Page 150 of Sugar

“Evening, Officer,” he greeted with a flick-of-the-wrist wave.

One that toppled the inflatable and him.

Shit.

I wasn’t sure how fucked up he was, so Maddie and I pushed through the crush of people escaping the imaginary cops. When we neared the pool, Tripp was holding on to the ledge.

And I got the feeling that was both literal and figurative.

I crouched in front of him. “Hey, man. Little late for a swim, don’t you think?”

“Ice baths in the morning, drunken swims at midnight. The things we stars do to slow the aging process.” He took my outstretched hand but didn’t let me pull him out. The water might’ve temporarily sobered him, but guilt and sadness mixed with whatever he’d taken, leaving him a fucked-up mess. “I didn’t want to see you.”

“That’s okay,” I tried to reassure him. If he was pissed at me, we would figure it out. Or, more likely, he would sober up and get over it.

He didn’t agree. “I knew you would bring Maddie, and you both would be happy. In love and happy. I didn’t want that in my face. I’m fucking lonely, man. All these people, and I’m fucking lonely.”

Christ.

I didn’t bother to point out that he wouldn’t be lonely if he stopped picking up sycophants, hangers-on, and gold-diggers. That was a conversation for when he was in a better mindset.

“That’s okay,” I repeated. “But Maddie is going to take you inside for some coffee while I clear everyone else out.”

“I’m sorry.” He finally let me pull him from the water, and he looked behind me. “Sorry, Maddie.”

She waved off his apology with nothing but concern softening her pretty face. “It’s okay. And call me Mads,” she tacked on.

“What the fuck?” I scowled at her. “You’ve never said I could call you Mads.”

“You’re a tyrant.”

“Yeah,” Tripp said as he shook the water from his hair. “Youarea tyrant.”

I transferred my forced glare to him. “These just became billable hours.”

Chapter 32

A Fucking Mess

MADDIE

“You okay?” I asked Trippas I took the stool next to him at his breakfast bar.

It was as lovely yet uncomfortable as everything else in his house seemed to be.

He answered my question with one of his own. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“You are sweet, funny, and have impeccable taste in movies.” He lifted his mug. “But you make a shit cup of coffee.”

“We all have our flaws.” I shrugged. “And I never make my own coffee. I buy it. Or rather, Easton sends it to me.”

“Oh yeah, he mentioned that. You love the roasted marshmallow one from Velvet Roast.”

Finally.

I lowered my voice. “I don’t think I’m supposed to know where he gets it from.”

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